"Do ye see that, ye graveyard robbers? Will ye blow yer brass bands
and yer tin pipes now, ye murtherin' wretches?"

The host has seen the signal of death, as it flaunts under the
flickering light of the gas lamp. There is an insensible yet rapid
departure. There were ten thousand hearers. There are, perhaps, ten
hundred whose eyes are as yet fixed upward on the orator.

"Our republic will forever remain splendid among nations," comes the
rich voice from the balcony. One may see a form swaying, an arm
reaching forth in the dim light.

The ten hundred are diminishing. It is like the banners of the auroral
light. The ten hundred were there a moment ago. Now it is but a
memory. No one is there. The street is so empty that a belated
delivery wagon may rattle along, stopping at wrong houses to fix the
number.

The orator speaks on. He weeps and he thunders.

Hasten out on that balcony, Richard Tarbelle, and stop this scandal!
Lead that demented orator in! Pluck him by the sleeve! Pluck harder!

"The voice of the people, my fellow-citizens," cries the people's idol,
"is the voice--is the voice of God."

"God, and Holy Mary, and the sweet angels!" comes a low, keening cry
from the kitchen.