In the Quarter

Every one was now looking at them. Gethryn began to fume.

``I'll thrash that cur if he says Prussian again,'' said he.

``You'll keep quiet, that's what you'll do,'' growled Thaxton, looking anxiously at Rhodes.

``Yes, you will!'' said the Colossus, very pale.

``Pig of a Prussian!'' shouted a fearful-looking hag, planting herself in front of Clifford with arms akimbo and head thrust forward. ``Pig of a Prussian spy!''

She glanced at her supporters, who promptly applauded.

``Ah–h–h!'' she screamed, her little green eyes shining like a tiger's – ``Spy! German spy!''

``Madam,'' said Clifford, politely, ``go and wash yourself.''

``Hold your cursed tongue, Clifford!'' whispered Thaxton. ``Do you want to be torn to pieces?''

Suddenly a man behind Gethryn sprang at his back, and then, amazed and terrified at his own daring, yelled lustily for help. Gethryn shook him off as he would a fly, but the last remnant of self-control went at the same time, and, wheeling, he planted a blow square in the fellow's neck. The man fell like an ox. In an instant the mob was upon them. Thaxton received a heavy kick in the ribs, which sent him reeling against Carleton. Clifford knocked two men down in as many blows, and, springing back, stood guard over Thaxton until he could struggle to his feet again. Elliott got a sounding thwack on the nose, which he neatly returned, adding one on the eye for interest. Gethryn and Carleton fought back to back. Rhodes began by half strangling a son of the Commune and then flung him bodily among his howling compatriots.

``Good Heavens,'' gasped Rhodes, ``we can't keep this up!'' And raising his voice, he cried with all the force of his lungs, ``Help! This way, police!'' A shot answered him, and a man, clapping his hands to his face, tilted heavily forward, the blood spurting between his fingers.

Then a terrible cry arose, a din in which the Americans caught the clanging of steel and the neighing of horses. A man was hurled violently against Gethryn, who, losing in turn his balance, staggered and fell. Rising to his knees, he saw a great foam-covered horse rearing almost over him, and a red-faced rider in steel helmet and tossing plume slashing furiously among the crowd. Next moment he was dragged to his feet and back into the flying mob.

``Look out,'' panted Thaxton, ``the cavalry – they've charged – run!'' Gethryn glanced over his shoulder. All along the edge of the frantic, panic-stricken crowd the gleaming crests of the cavalry surged and dashed like a huge wave of steel.

Cries, groans, and curses rose and were drowned in the thunder of the charging horses and the clashing of weapons.

``Spy!'' screamed a voice in his ear. Gethryn turned, but the fellow was legging it for safety.

Suddenly he saw a woman who, pushed and crowded by the mob, stumbled and fell. In a moment he was by her side, bent over to raise her, was hurled upon his face, rose blinded by dust and half-stunned, but dragging her to her feet with him.

Swept onward by the rush, knocked this way and that, he still managed to support the dazed woman, and by degrees succeeded in controlling his own course, which he bent toward the Obelisk. As he neared the goal of comparative safety, exhausted, he suffered himself and the woman to be carried on by the rush. Then a blinding flash split the air in front, and the crash of musketry almost in his face hurled him back.

Men threw up their hands and sank in a heap or spun round and pitched headlong. For a moment he swayed in the drifting smoke. A blast of hot, sickening air enveloped him. Then a dull red cloud seemed to settle slowly, crushing, grinding him into the earth.

Three

When Gethryn unclosed his eyes the dazzling sunlight almost blinded him. A thousand grotesque figures danced before him, a hot red vapor seemed to envelop him. He felt a dull pain in his ears and a numb sensation about the legs. Gradually he recalled the scene that had just passed; the flying crowd lashed by that pitiless iron scourge; the cruel panic; the mad, suffocating rush; and then that crash of thunder which had crushed him.

He lay quite still, not offering to move. A strange languor seemed to weigh down his very heart. The air reeked with powder smoke. Not a breath was stirring.

Presently the numbness in his knees changed to a hot, pricking throb. He tried to move his legs, but found he could not. Then a sudden thought sent the blood with a rush to his heart. Perhaps he no longer had any legs! He remembered to have heard of legless men whose phantom members caused them many uncomfortable sensations. He certainly had a dull pain where his legs belonged, but the question was, had he legs also? The doubt was too much, and with a faint cry he struggled to rise.

``The devil!'' exclaimed a voice close to his head, and a pair of startled eyes met his own. `` The devil!'' repeated the owner of the eyes, as if to a apostrophize some particular one. He was a bird-like little fellow, with thin canary-colored hair and eyebrows and colorless eyes, and he was seated upon a campstool about two feet from Gethryn's head.

He blinked at Gethryn. ``These Frenchmen,'' said he, ``have as many lives as a cat.''

``Thanks!'' said Gethryn, smiling faintly.

``An Englishman! The devil!'' shouted the pale-eyed man, hopping in haste from his campstool and dropping a well-thumbed sketching-block as he did so.

``Don't be an ass,'' suggested Gethryn; ``you'd much better help me to get up.''

``Look here,'' cried the other, ``how was I to know you were not done for?''

``What's the matter with me?'' said Gethryn. ``Are my – my legs gone?''

The little man glanced at Gethryn's shoes.

No, they're all there, unless you originally had more than the normal number – in fact I'm afraid – I think you're all right.

Gethryn stared at him.

``And what the devil am I to do with this sketch?'' he continued, kicking the fallen block. ``I've been at it for an hour. It isn't half bad, you know. I was going to call it `Love in Death.' It was for the London Illustrated Mirror.''

Gethryn lay quite still. He had decided the little fellow was mad.

``Dead in each other's arms!'' continued the stranger, sentimentally. ``She so fair – he so brave – ''

Gethryn sprang up impatiently, but only a little way. Something held him down and he fell back.

``Do you want to get up?'' asked the stranger.

``I should rather think so.''

The other bent down and placed his hands under Gethryn's arms, and – half helped, half by his own impatient efforts – Rex sat up, leaning against the other man. A sharp twinge shot through the numbness of his legs, and his eyes, seeking the cause, fell upon the body of a woman. She lay across his knees, apparently dead. Rex remembered her now for the first time.

``Lift her,'' he said weakly.

The little man with some difficulty succeeded in moving the body; then Gethryn, putting one arm around the other's neck, struggled up. He was stiff, and toppled about a little, but before long he was pretty steady on his feet.

``The woman,'' he said, ``perhaps she is not dead.''

``Dead she is,'' said the Artist of the Mirror cheerfully, gathering up his pencils, which lay scattered on the steps of the pedestal. He leaned over the little heap of crumpled clothing.

``Shot, I fancy,'' he muttered.

Gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored to his limbs, went over to the place where she lay.

``Have you a flask?'' he asked. The little Artist eyed him suspiciously.

``Are you a newspaperman?''

``No, an art student.''

``Nothing to do with newspapers?''

``No.''