“That is all I shall do,” Brereton answered. “Unless,” with a faint ring of contempt in his tone, “the Mayor gives me an express and written order to attack the people.”
The Mayor’s face was a picture. “I?” he gasped.
“Yes, sir.”
“But I—I could not take that responsibility on myself,” the Mayor cried. “I couldn’t, I really couldn’t!” he repeated, taken aback by the burden it was proposed to put on him. “I can’t judge, Colonel Brereton—I am not a military man—whether it is necessary or not.”
“I should consider it unwise,” Brereton replied formally.
“Very good! Then—then you must use your discretion.”
“Just so. That’s what I supposed,” Brereton replied, not masking his contempt for the vacillation of those about him. “In that case I shall pursue the line of action I have indicated. I shall walk my horses up and down. The crowd are perfectly good-humoured. What is it, pray?”
He turned, frowning. A man had entered the room and was whispering in the Town-clerk’s ear. The latter straightened himself with a heated face. “You call them good-humoured, sir?” he said. “I hear that two of your men, Colonel Brereton, have just been brought in severely wounded. I do not know whether you call that good-humour?”
Brereton looked a little discomposed. “They must have brought it on themselves,” he said, “by some rashness. Your constables have no discretion.”
“I think you should at least clear the Square and the neighbouring streets,” the Town-clerk persisted.