curling red hair and blue eyes--a kindly-looking lad. The strap of his
sombrero had torn loose on one side, and except while he held it in his
teeth it flapped about his chin. His face was sunburnt and grimy with
dust and sweat.

This young man did not appear to me to be acting from his reason. He was
doing his work from a determination implanted previously, days, weeks
perhaps, on his imagination. His mind was--where? It was not with his
body. And continually his eyes went searching widely, looking for
spaces, scanning hastily the clouds, the vistas of the streets, looking
for something that did not hinder him, looking away for a moment from
the immediacies and rigours which were impressed where his mind had
been.

When I spoke he looked at me, and I know that for some seconds he did
not see me. I said:--

"What is the meaning of all this? What has happened?"

He replied collectedly enough in speech, but with that ramble and
errancy clouding his eyes.

"We have taken the City. We are expecting an attack from the military at
any moment, and those people," he indicated knots of men, women and
children clustered towards the end of the Green, "won't go home for me.
We have the Post Office, and the Railways, and the Castle. We have all
the City. We have everything."

(Some men and two women drew behind me to listen).