of Christ Church tottered and fell, and those who stood near to him saw blood gush from his temple and go streaming down his face. A woman screamed, and fought her way to him as he lay sprawled along the steps. It was Mary Bradley. She flung herself down at his side. She lifted his shoulders into her lap, and held his head against her breast, and strove to staunch the blood that was pouring from his wound. She turned her blazing eyes on the crowd below her, a crowd that had grown suddenly silent as it saw the result of its first tragic blow.
"Villains!" she screamed. "Murderers! You have killed the only man on earth who cared a pin for your black souls!—the only man whose love I ever craved."
Her cry ended in a wail. She laid her face against the pallid and blood-streaked face that rested on her bosom, and sought to find in it some sign of life. The guards unlocked the office door and carried the limp body of the minister within, taking with them, perforce, the woman who would not let go her hold. But, once inside, they tore her away, and thrust her from them, like a thing unclean.
Hitherto the police, in obedience to orders, had endeavored to hold the rioters in check without the shedding of blood. But now, shocked and angered at the brutal assault on the rector, and taking advantage of the temporary lull occasioned by it, they charged into the mob. Firmly, furiously, with the strength of twice their number, they drove the rabble back. There was savage resistance. There were broken heads. There were bullets that went wild. Bleeding men lay prone on the pavement. Then came a relief squad, hammering its way in; and from each blind end of the plaza the rioters were forced to the center, and up the narrow street toward the city. Enraged, sullen, bleeding, carrying helpless comrades along, they were scattered and driven in helpless confusion to their haunts and homes.
