"You have said that you love me. Can't you make this sacrifice for me?
Can't you make this concession to my fears, my conscience, my beliefs?
I am only a woman, and I cannot face this grim and awful thing. I
cannot think of your part in it."
The look she gave him went to his heart.
"Margherita!" he cried, in torture; "don't you see I have no choice? I couldn't yield, even if the price were—you and your love. You wouldn't rob me of my manhood?"
"I could never touch hands which were stained with the blood of defenseless men—not even in friendship, you—understand?"
"I understand!" For a second time the color left his face.
Her glance wavered again, she swayed, then groped for the door, while he stood like stone in his tracks.
"Good-by!" he said, lifelessly.
"Good-by!" she answered, in the same tone. "I have done my part. You are a man, and you must do yours as you see it. But may God save you from bloodshed."
Long before the hour set for the gathering at Clay Statue the streets in that vicinity began to fill. Men continued on past their places of business; shops and offices remained closed; the wide strip of neutral ground which divided the two sides of the city's leading thoroughfare began to pack. Around the base of the monument groups of citizens congregated until the cars were forced to slow down and proceed with a clangor of gongs which served only as a tocsin to draw more recruits. Vehicles came to a halt, were wedged dose to the curbs, and became coigns of vantage; office windows, store-fronts, balconies, and roof-tops began to cluster with a human freight.
After a week of wind and rain the sun had risen in a sky that was cloudless, save for a few thin streaks of shining silver which resembled long polished rapiers or the gleaming spear-points of a host still hidden below the horizon. The fragrance of shrubs and flowers, long dormant, weighted the breeze. It was a glorious morning, fit for love and laughter and little children.