Jones and Andrew following.  Ellen, as she rushed on towards the factory stairs, was conscious of no fear at all, but rather of a sort of exaltation of courage.  It did not really occur to her that she could be hurt, that it could be in the heart of Lee or Dixon, or any of them, actually to harm her.  She was throbbing and intense with indignation and resolution.  Into that factory to her work she was bound to go.  All that intimidated her in the least was the fear for her father.  She rushed as fast as she could that her father might not get before her and be hurt in some way.

“Scab! scab!” shouted Lee and the others.

“Scab yourself!” shrieked Sadie Peel.  Her father was one of the opposing party, and that gave her perfect audacity.  “Look out you don’t hit me, dad,” she cried to him.  “I’m goin’ to get my nearseal cape.  Don’t you hit your daughter, Tom Peel!” She raced on with a sort of hoppity-skip.  She caught a young man near her by the arm and forced him into the same dancing motion.

They were at the foot of the stairs, when Robert, watching, saw Lee with a pistol in his hand aim straight at Ellen.  He sprang before her, but Risley was nearer, and the shot struck him.  When Risley fell, a great cry, it would have been difficult to tell whether of triumph or horror, went up from the open windows of the other factories, and men came swarming out.  Lee and his companions vanished.

A great crowd gathered around Risley until the doctors came and ordered them away, and carried him in the ambulance to the hospital.  He was not dead, but evidently very seriously injured.

When the ambulance had rolled out of sight, the Lloyd employes entered the factory, and the hum of machinery began.

Fanny and Andrew stood together before the factory after Ellen had entered.  Andrew had started when he had seen his wife.

“You here?” he said.

“I rather guess I’m here,” returned Fanny.  “Do you s’pose I was goin’ to stay at home, and not know whether you and her were shot dead or not?”

“I guess it’s all safe now,” said Andrew.  He was very pale.  He looked at the blood-stained place where Lyman Risley had lain.  “It’s awful work,” he said.

“Who did it?” asked Fanny, sharply.  “I heard the shot just before I got here.”

“I don’t know for sure, and guess it’s better I don’t,” replied Andrew, sternly.

Then all at once as they stood there a woman came up with a swift, gliding motion and a long trail of black skirts straight to Fanny, who was the only woman there.  There were still a great many men and boys standing about.  The woman, Cynthia Lennox, caught Fanny’s arm with a nervous grip.  Her finely cut face was very white under the nodding plumes of her black bonnet.

“Is he in there?” she asked, in a strained voice, pointing to the shop.

Fanny stared at her.  She was half dazed.  She did not know whether she was referring to the wounded man or Robert.