"This morning," said he, "the police rushed us. One ran at me to take my
revolver. I fired but I missed him, and I hit a--"

"You have far too much talk," said a voice to the young man.

I turned a few steps away, and glancing back saw that he was staring
after me, but I know that he did not see me--he was looking at turmoil,
and blood, and at figures that ran towards him and ran away--a world in
motion and he in the centre of it astonished.

The men with him did not utter a sound. They were both older. One,
indeed, a short, sturdy man, had a heavy white moustache. He was quite
collected, and took no notice of the skies, or the spaces. He saw a man
in rubbers placing his hand on a motor bicycle in the barricade, and
called to him instantly: "Let that alone."

The motorist did not at once remove his hand, whereupon the
white-moustached man gripped his gun in both hands and ran violently
towards him. He ran directly to him, body to body, and, as he was short
and the motorist was very tall, stared fixedly up in his face. He roared
up at his face in a mighty voice.

"Are you deaf? Are you deaf? Move back!"

The motorist moved away, pursued by an eye as steady and savage as the
point of the bayonet that was level with it.

Another motor car came round the Ely Place corner of the Green and
wobbled at the sight of the barricade. The three men who had returned
to the gates roared "Halt," but the driver made a tentative effort to