like a shillelagh in sheer excitement, forgetting his new-found respectability and dreaming himself back at Donnybrook Fair.  Him a conscientious constable floored with a truncheon.  But a shower of fists fell on the zealot’s face, and he tottered back bleeding.  Then the storm broke in all its fury.  The upper air was black with staves, sticks, and umbrellas, mingled with the pallid hailstones of knobby fists.  Yells, and groans, and hoots, and battle-cries blent in grotesque chorus, like one of Dvorak’s weird diabolical movements.  Mortlake stood impassive, with arms folded, making no further effort, and the battle raged round him as the water swirls round some steadfast rock.  A posse of police from the back fought their way steadily towards him, and charged up the heights of the platform steps, only to be sent tumbling backwards, as their leader was hurled at them like a battering-ram.  Upon the top of the heap he fell, surmounting the strata of policemen.  But others clambered upon them, escalading the platform.  A moment more and Mortlake would have been taken.  Then the miracle happened.

As when of old a reputable goddess ex machina saw her favourite hero in dire peril, straightway she drew down a cloud from the celestial stores of Jupiter and enveloped her fondling in kindly night, so that his adversary strove with the darkness, so did Crowl, the cunning cobbler, the much-daring, essay to ensure his friend’s safety.  He turned off the gas at the meter.

An Arctic night—­unpreceded by twilight—­fell, and there dawned the sabbath of the witches.  The darkness could be felt—­and it left blood and bruises behind it.  When the lights were turned on again, Mortlake was gone.  But several of the rioters were arrested, triumphantly.

And through all, and over all, the face of the dead man, who had sought to bring peace on earth, brooded.

* * * * *

Crowl sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese, with his head bandaged, while Denzil Cantercot told him the story of how he had rescued Tom Mortlake.  He had been among the first to scale the height, and had never budged from Tom’s side or from the forefront of the battle till he had seen him safely outside and into a by-street.

“I am so glad you saw that he got away safely,” said Crowl, “I wasn’t quite sure he would.”

“Yes; but I wish some cowardly fool hadn’t turned off the gas.  I like men to see that they are beaten.”

“But it seemed—­easier,” faltered Crowl.

“Easier!” echoed Denzil, taking a deep draught of bitter.  “Really, Peter, I’m sorry to find you always will take such low views.  It may be easier, but it’s shabby.  It shocks one’s sense of the Beautiful.”

Crowl ate his bread and cheese shamefacedly.

“But what was the use of breaking your head to save him?” said Mrs. Crowl, with an unconscious pun.  “He must be caught.”