“Well,” judged Gabriel, “within a ten-mile radius of the plant, at least a hundred thousand men are waiting, this very instant, with every nerve keyed up to fighting tension.  Scattered in a vast variety of ingenious and cleverly-devised hiding places, with their chlorine grenades and their revolvers shooting little hydrocyanic acid gas bullets, they’re waiting the signal—­a rocket in mid-heaven.”

“Hydrocyanic acid gas!” exclaimed Marion, forgetting to smoke.  “Why, one whiff of that is death!”

“It is,” agreed Gabriel.  “Remember, this is a war of extermination.  It’s a case of them or us!  And if we’re worsted, the whole world loses; while if they are, then liberty is born!  That’s why this gas is justifiable.  They’ll try to use oxygen-bullets on us, never fear.  But where they can kill ten, with those, we can annihilate a hundred with our kind.  Swine, they have called us, and fools and apes.  Well, we shall see, we shall see, when it comes to an out-and-out fight between Plutocrat and Proletarian, who is the better man!”

Again came silence.  And this time it was Grantham who broke it.

“Comrades,” said he, “after you’ve seen as many Socialists shot down as I have—­shot down and burned, as Brevard was—­you’ll lose any lingering ideas of civilized warfare you may still retain.  They hunt us like beasts, prison us in foul traps, ride us down, crush us, break and tear us, and burn us alive, because we struggle to be free men and women, not slaves.  Now that our hour has struck, now that their lines of communication and defense are breached, and they—­though they still don’t fully understand it—­are penned there in their heaven-offending, monstrous, horrible plant at the Falls, no true man can hesitate to smash them down with no more compunction than as though they were so many rattlesnakes or scorpions!

“This isn’t 1915, when political and civil rights still existed, and we weren’t hunted outlaws.  This is 1925, and conditions are all different.  It’s war, war, war to the death, now; and if war is Hell, then they are going to get Hell this time, not we.”

Nobody spoke, for a little while; but Marion and Craig smoked contemplatively, and the others sat there in the dusk, sunk in thought.

All at once a door opened, and the vague form of a woman became visible.

“Comrades, you must go,” said she.  “It’s nearly half past five.  By the time you’ve got everything in readiness, you’ll have no time to lose.”

“Right, Catherine,” answered Gabriel.  “Come, comrades!  Up and at it!”

Ten minutes later they all issued forth into the soft gloom.  All were in aviator’s dress, and each carried a parcel by a handle held with stout straps.  Had you seen them, you would have noticed they took particular pains not to jar or shake these parcels, or approach unduly near each other.

At the door of the refuge, Catherine said good-bye to each, and added some brave word of cheer.  Her farewell to Gabriel was longer than to the others; and for a moment their hands met and clung.