He sat up in bed in bewildered wonder whether it had been an actual sound, an explosion, that had awakened him, or whether it had been some particularly realistic bit of dream. Still, there was a peculiarly dry, rattling clatter, something like hail—and yet the sun was shining—just as he was trying to shake himself thoroughly awake, the sound ceased abruptly.

As he swung himself out of bed, Karsten hurried in. "Hallo, time to get busy, Kent. It has broken loose, the revolution, riot, or whatever it is, shooting, burning. That was machine-gun fire we just heard, from the Aoyama barracks, I take it. Breakfast will be ready for you when you have dressed. You had better make a meal before you start; you're likely to have a strenuous day."

It was difficult to take time for eating, but Karsten insisted. "Won't you come along?" asked Kent. "You should see the excitement." But Karsten shook his head, laughed. "No, to-day, I'm staying home, even if they burn down all of Tokyo." He smiled to Jun-san. She came over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Happiness, radiated over these two, made them look younger, an odd appearance of newness, as if they had been refurbished, brightened. A flash of envious admiration came to Kent; after all, though modern life smiled at romance, it was the thing that mattered, woman, affection between the sexes, the one ingredient that could vitalize humdrum existence with the color, the play and sparkle of joy of living. From a distance came the reverberation of a dull boom; from somewhere near the center of the city a great smoke cloud shot skywards, mushroomed in the still air, dissipated slowly into a thin pall of bluish haze.

He ran into the street. It seemed like a holiday, with the absence of the usual bustle of business. Here and there groups of people, mostly women, chattered excitedly, with a frightened and yet fascinated look on their faces. It reminded him of the aspect the neighborhood took on when there was a fire in the quarter. The street cars were not running. A detachment of police passed him, about a hundred of them, running with their peculiar stiff trot, each with a gloved hand clamped on his short sword, in a long double file.

As he came near the square at Toranomon, he ran into a line of infantrymen, resting stolidly on their rifles, keeping clear the wide space behind them, the quarter containing the Diet building, Foreign Office, the Kasumigaseki Palace and, farther back, the General Staff headquarters. He made his way along a side street hurriedly, avoiding the crowds which had gathered here and there, wherever temple grounds or square afforded a convenient space. There was not so much excitement as he had expected, rather an air of expectancy; they did not appear like people who were engaged at this moment in overthrowing their overlords; rather they seemed eager for the staging of some event which they knew was about to happen, as if they were waiting for a show of daylight fireworks. Still, here and there might be seen small groups of men who seemed to have a definite objective, who were intent on some certain purpose, on going somewhere. It was significant that they all, even the more stolid ones, ran, or walked, or drifted in the same general direction,—towards the government building quarter stretching from the central police station at Hibiya to the War Office in a long curve following the outer palace moat and centering on the wide street running from the palace gate at Sakuradamon, near which lay the nerve centers of the Government, the Navy, War and Judiciary buildings, the Diet quarters, and the rest.

The whole movement was too vast, too intangible, covered too much ground to make it possible to handle the story single-handed. They would know more at the Japan American Office. He found Carew there, tired-eyed, helping himself to hot, black coffee from a thermos bottle.

"Hallo, Kent," he stretched himself. "Hell, isn't it? Here it is, the big story, the outbreak that we have all been expecting and waiting for for years, the demolishment of the last stronghold in the world of militarism in its old form, perhaps; and here I am, almost idle. There is news popping every minute, big stuff, and there isn't a thing to do with it. The boys are out covering the story as best they can, but what's the use? We can't get out a paper. There is no power for the machines, and, anyway, I have no linotype men, no press crew. You might as well take it easy, too. Tokyo is isolated as far as messages are concerned. The wires are down everywhere. They say the bridges are down on all sides of the city. Even if they weren't, they would not take cable messages, of course. I tried to send one of the boys to Yokohama, hoping he might get a message out by wireless from some steamer, but he just came back. The Kawasaki bridge has been blown up, one span at least, and the military are guarding it and won't let any one pass. Go out and enjoy yourself looking about, but you won't get any news out of here to-day, anyway."

"But what do you make of it?" Carew's stoicism irritated him. "What do you know about it? Is it The Revolution?"

"I don't know." Carew shrugged his shoulders. "Call it anything you please, revolution, riot, overthrow. It is the simultaneous uprising of all the lower classes, the poorer classes, the working classes. It is the explosion of the discontent that has been accumulating for years. It reminds me of a drift of snow that has been growing bigger and bigger, overhanging some steep slope, waiting but for some impetus to start it off. The Mito assassination started it; it is on the way, gathering force every minute, an avalanche that gains growth from the snow that is waiting to add its volume as it rushes onwards. The question now is merely whether the Government can hold it; if the troops will stick by it. That'll tell the whole story."

"Have you any idea how far this is a concerted movement, a planned general movement? Have you gotten anything from the outside?"

"Sure it is part of a general plan to some extent." Carew handed him a sheaf of Nippon Dempo news service flimsies. "These kept coming in until early this morning when everything suddenly stopped. You see how, the moment the news of the Mito assassination came out, hell broke loose in various places. Peasants from one end of Japan to the other, tenant farmers, who have been clamoring at the landlords on account of exorbitant rents, have been burning village offices and landlords' houses. At the same time came strikes, rioting, violence in all the industrial centers,—Osaka, Kobe, Nogoya. At first, when the news began to trickle in last night, I thought it was just like the rice riots in 1918, with breaking of some windows and wrecking of some office buildings and warehouses. But it's bigger. It's a sight bigger. I fancy no one knows how big it will grow before it stops, or where it will stop. Go take a look about town, and you'll see they've done a lot of damage already.

"We had a small riot right here a couple of hours ago. I've known right along that one of the linotype men is a Socialist leader of sorts; at least, the police have always come and locked him up whenever the suffrage bill or anything like that came up in the Diet. But when they came early this morning as per usual, some three or four of them, they set upon them, all the printers. They beat the devil out of the policemen and then they beat it. I fancy that's characteristic of the whole situation all over Japan. The worm is turning."

Kent went on to his office a few blocks away. Ishii was there, restless with excitement. "I've been waiting for you, Kent-san. I have a message for you. She came about an hour ago, Adachi-san. She says that if you want to see the best part of the excitement, come to Sakuradamon. She'll probably be there."

Adachi-san! It was like a shock to have her suddenly injected into his life again after all these months. A short time ago, when she had vanished, this news would have caused his heart to beat high with excitement, would have sent him flying to find her—but now, even though he did feel expectancy at seeing her again, curiosity to learn why she had disappeared, where she had been, the predominant feeling was one of uneasiness. That incident, that bit of romance, had been delightful, pungently sweet when thought of as just that, a delectable, charming interlude in the humdrum course of existence; but that was just its main charm, what gave it the subtle flavor of a fanciful dream, its evanescence, the very fact that it had never crystallized into a more lasting, definite relationship. It had faded out of his life now; what he could treasure as a memory, a whimsical recollection, might be but vitiated, rendered drab and prosaic, should he allow its reality to inject itself, intrudingly, into his life. And then, of course, over and above it all, there was Sylvia.

"We had better go right now." Ishii was nervously eager. "You had better wear your police badge where it can be seen, so we can get through the lines."

"All right, I'm coming." He fastened his police badge, a disk of wood bearing the magic formula which allowed him to pass police cordons, on a string about his neck. Of course, he must see her. After all, it was pathetic, her thinking of him in the midst of all this excitement. He wondered how much she really had to do with it all.

As they approached Hibiya Park the crowds became more dense. He had to display his badge repeatedly to get past lines of police. Excitement was more evident now, and yet the city seemed oddly quiet. He realized that it was the absence of the usual noise of traffic, roar of elevated trains, clatter of street cars. The entire voice of the city had changed; the volume of sound from hundreds of thousands of humans, shuffling along in clacking geta, talking, shouting, making an entirely new sound, live, electric, ominous as contrasted with the usual mechanical rattle.

Just in front of the park the police lines were the most solid, thousands of officers backed by mounted gendarmes. They would not let him pass, shrugged shoulders as he tried to argue with them, showing his pass. He worked his way along the line towards the main entrance, hoping to find some opening. He found a young official, pleasantly courteous, who seemed inclined to listen. Suddenly, as he argued, a dull roar sounded behind him, to his right; a gust of wind, as if a giant had blown a gigantic breath over him and the rest of the crowd. The masses behind him surged forward irresistibly. He noted that the mouth of the young officer had opened, eyes popping, staring as if some astounding, incredible sight had just appeared. As the crowd pushed on, carrying him and the police line before it, he managed to turn and look over the heads of the frantic people milling all about him. As he was borne on, through the entrance into the park, he caught a glimpse of the great central police station to the right behind him. The entire corner was gone, leaving exposed, doll-house rooms in the interior beyond. The usually meticulous bronze figure of some noted police official had been knocked askew by the dÉbris into an absurdly incongruous drunken attitude. Fine dust from the explosion began to settle over them. The crowds, frantically insistent on getting away, had broken through the police lines on all sides, along the broad road between Hibiya Park and the outer moat, and, beyond that, across Babasakimon bridge, into the great space between the inner and outer palace moats, surging towards Sakuradamon. But here in Hibiya Park the police were getting the crowd in hand again, assisted by gendarmes and soldiers who had come from the other side of the square. The mounted men rode their horses right into the crowds; sabers were used freely. The soldiers seemed unenthusiastic, apathetic. Kent noticed that they belonged to some infantry regiment up in the fifties; probably they were country recruits, more in sympathy with the mob than against it. But the others, the police and the gendarmes, were laboring under hysterical excitement. They had always seemed absurd to him, these tiny-looking swords, but quite evidently they were dangerous weapons, viciously sharpened. Some of the superior officers particularly appeared to have become entirely beside themselves, eyes bloodshot, mouths foaming, literally crazed for the moment, maniacs insane with blood lust.

Kent managed to avoid them by taking the smaller paths leading through shrubbery. The police were all busy raging at the mob, and the soldiers, seeing his police emblem, shrugged shoulders and let him pass. As he worked over towards the other side of the park, in the direction of the navy wireless tower, he became aware of a feeling of emptiness, as if the space, the atmosphere rather, had in some strange way changed, as if it were lighter, more spacious. There was a peculiar acrid tang in the air; he sniffed; yes, that was smoke rising there over the trees. He climbed a low knoll, usually a favorite place for lovers, with a summerhouse surrounded by azaleas. Ah, that was it; where the Diet building had stood, a barn-like, wood and stucco structure, was now no building at all; only smoldering heaps of dÉbris. He obtained a moment's amusement by noticing that the cordons of police and soldiers which had been guarding the Diet all these months were still there, on all four sides of the great block, solemnly guarding the smoking ashes.

He swerved to the right, managed to get to the street alongside the outer moat just ahead of the crowd which had broken through the police lines down by the central station. Here, inside the space containing the most important government buildings, were scattered only small detachments of police and soldiers, who did not attempt to face the mob; but beyond, up on the high ground by the War Office and the General Staff headquarters, were sounding bugle calls. Evidently troops were being summoned to form new cordons to take the places of those which had been broken.

By this time he was almost running. He must get as far as possible into this inner area before new lines were formed. Evidently the same thought possessed the mobs racing behind him. They were surprisingly silent; the predominating sound was the vast volume of clatter made by tens of thousands of wooden geta. Just as he was about to pass into the square facing, on its right, the Sakuradamon palace entrance and to the left a great empty lot above which rose the General Staff building, he heard his name being called. "Here, Kent-san. Here I am."

There she was, Sadako-san, with a small group of others, at a vantage point formed by the small space surrounding the pedestal of a statue of a frock-coated gentleman in bronze, set in a corner of the Judiciary building grounds. There were two or three other girls and about a dozen men. He noticed the professor who had been in jail on account of his writings about Kropotkin.

She had been right in picking this point as the center of events. Already they were beginning to concentrate on this spot from all sides, the crowd coming along the Hibiya Park road and that flowing across the space from Babasakimon reinforced by the student contingent from Kanda and the laborers from Asakusa and Uyeno, and even from across the Sumida River, from Honjo and Fukagawa. And apparently they were trying to come on from the other side of the city, too. Up on the higher ground, in the direction of the Sanno-dai Temple grounds, a hilly park often used for demonstrations, came sound of musketry, volley firing. Bugles still sounded about the General Staff headquarters grounds and, behind that, on the hill crowned by the War Office. Bugles also began to sound from across the moat, inside the inner palace grounds. Still, oddly, there was no sight of soldiers or police; the crowds continued to surge on into the square, gradually filling it. On the other side the multitude was evidently being kept in check by some cordon which they could not see, at Toranomon probably. A few small groups, individual figures here and there, evidently Foreign Office officials or men from the Italian or Russian embassies close by, were moving along rapidly, evidently to see the excitement. Presently Kent saw Kikuchi. He shouted to him, managed to attract his attention. As he joined their group, Kent noticed a stir among the others, frowns, whispers, then shoulder shrugs; but no protest was made.

But he wanted to see Sadako-san, to have a few words with her, at least. He managed to draw her aside a little, sheltered against the pedestal of the statue. "Sadako-san, where have you been? That wasn't the right thing to do, to run away from me like that. You know, I've——"

"Oh, Kent-san, you must not think that that was what I asked you to come here for, to talk nonsense, on a day like this—no, not nonsense, forgive me. I didn't mean that. We'll talk about—about these other things some other time—yes, I promise—but to-day; don't you see, this is the day we have all been waiting for so long, the day marking the birth of a new Japan, when the people of Japan shall break down the rule of the tyrants, of the wicked, old anachronists over there," she pointed across the square to the gray, copper-roofed building of the General Staff. "That's why I asked you to come here, to this spot; for this is where history is to be made to-day."

It flashed on him that she made a picture as she stood there, exquisite in her soft-tinted kimono, eyes flashing, cheeks flushed. She seemed as if she might be emblematic, a figure representative of the new Japanese idealism, standing side by side with this bronze frock-coated individual, a nice old respectable bureaucrat no doubt, whoever he might be; the two, the breathing, pulsating girl and the cold, stiff bronze man, symbolic of Japan of to-day, the contrast. Still, why did she insist on taking part in this mad medley of mob passion? How much happier she would be—— Recollection came to him of some of their excursions together. But, of course, that could be no longer. The thought came to him suddenly—it was fortunate that she had refused to discuss personal topics. That was just like him, saying things without thinking. He had not intended to recall their affair, matters of affection; still, of course, he could see now how it must have seemed to her that he was trying to do so.

The crowd kept surging into the square, which was gradually filling. It began to become monotonous; nothing happened; it did not look as if anything was even about to happen; one became impatient, disappointed with the sense of constantly baffled expectation. Evidently the "revolution" was about to fizzle and splutter into extinction without dramatic dÉnouement. Did it have any intention whatever, this mob? What was the idea of the whole thing? "What is going to happen, Sadako-san? What are you people going to do? Is all this disturbance throughout Japan a planned, concerted movement, or is it just accidental, spontaneous outbreaks caused by the death of the Premier?"

"Both, in a way." She showed her pleasure at being able to instruct him. "We have been waiting for many months for this to happen, we radicals, thousands of us, scattered through all of Japan. Everywhere where there was dissatisfaction, among the tenant farmers in all the country districts, among the industrial laborers and all the other poor people in the cities, in fact, everywhere in Japan we had our leaders, a few here and a few there; only a few were needed in each place; conditions have made the people, the whole nation almost, ready to strike if only some one gave a start. They all knew, we all knew, that some day the great event would occur which would be the signal for our men to lead revolts throughout Japan. We all knew that it would happen some day, to-morrow, in a month, in a year, but when we didn't know, or possibly only the very few leaders. The police knew, too, that it would happen sometime; but that was just what baffled them; what prevented them from making an end to the business, the utter uncertainty of it all. They could not keep all of us, the thousands and thousands on their suspect lists, locked up all the time. So we all waited, we and the police, for the event that would be the signal, and when they killed that poor fool Mito, we all knew that the time had come. But the police could not move fast enough. Do you know that all bridges and wires are down all about Tokyo? They have had to send their best troops to Korea and Manchuria for their schemes there. They couldn't depend on most of the army for imperialist schemes, ever since the Siberian scandal. So now there is in Tokyo only the First Regiment, the Imperial Guards, who'll be loyal to the General Staff. And do you think that they can stop us?" She stretched her hand out towards the crowding thousands in the square before them. "Do you think one regiment can stop them?"

"But what is it that you are going to do? Why are all these people coming here? What's the big purpose?"

"Why, overthrow, of course." She almost shouted in her impatience. "We shall turn them out, the General Staff, the bureaucrats; then we shall—anyway, we shall overthrow the Government."

He shrugged his shoulders wearily. Always, in beer hall, or public square, or radical magazine, these students, professors, theorists, revolutionists, always ranting about the "overthrow" without an idea of what must follow. Impatience overcame him. It all seemed so futile, silly, even the big events, the assassination of the Premier, the burning of the Diet building and the rest, purposeless, childish destruction, leading nowhere.

"Well, suppose you do overthrow it all, what then? Do you want to be like Russia?"

"What's the matter with Russia then?" The voice, masculine, faintly familiar, came from right behind him. He turned resentfully. Who the devil could this be, eavesdropping? It was LÜttich. He had seen the Russian only a few times since the days when they were fellow-travelers on the Tenyo Maru. He had supposed that he was teaching the violin, dancing, French and other polite accomplishments to the aristocracy. What was he doing here, evidently hand in glove with the revolutionists? And what the devil business had he to butt in on them?

"The last time I talked politics with you, LÜttich," he spoke with studied sarcasm, that the others might hear, "you seemed to have lots to say against the present government of Russia."

"Of course," the other laughed scornfully. "What chance do you think a Russian would have living in Japan unless he sang just that tune? But, good Lord, man, did you really think that I'd content myself with that, with being a dancing master, and in these times. These are the times to live in, Kent. Think of it, a few years ago, Petrograd, and now here, to-day, Tokyo! And to have a hand in it all! Did you see the police station, Kent-san? What did you think of it?"

"I'll tell you what I think of——"

"Look, listen," she had gripped his arm. Across the square, on the hill of the General Staff building, something was in motion. The Kropotkin professor had a field glass which was being passed round. Kent, in his turn, caught a glimpse of the scene in front of the building, a solitary figure in the middle, and lower down, in front of it, files of soldiers. He passed the glass on to Kikuchi.

"My God, Kent-san," Kikuchi handed it back to him. "Take another look. Don't you see, it's him, the Devil himself, General Matsu, chief of the General Staff."

From the top of the hill the bugle sounded again. A roar, explosions from all sides, flashes from the other side of the moat, from the ramparts of the palace grounds, from the top of the hill. Then, abruptly, a moment of silence, of bewilderment, sudden occurrence and sudden cessation of the sound having a theatrical effect, as if a pianist had finished a rather tedious composition with a sudden sweep of hand crashing across the full stretch of bass octaves. It stunned them, and the crowd stood dumb, numbed, unbelieving. Then it was as if at precisely the same instant the full meaning of what had happened came to all, a revelation of despair; they were surrounded, troops on all sides, hemmed them in, tens of thousands. From all sides they crowded, milling against the center, seeking escape. Kent pushed the girl before him, up towards the top of the pedestal, he and the rest climbing up its terraced sides to avoid the sea of humanity surging frantically about them. Whimsically, there came to his mind a picture from the DorÉ Bible, a picture of the flood, a group of humans and animals seeking on an isolated rocky peak escape from the rising waters.

"Damn them, they have some sense yet, these militarists," there was a note of admiration in the voice of the Russian. "Here they have managed to trap the best part of the country's radical leaders, half of them at least. I wonder if——"

From the hill top came the notes of the bugle, clear, unfaltering, like a maneuver call. Immediately another crash of rifles, just one volley. They were shooting more accurately this time, or the officers were compelling the men to do so. All along the edges of the mob they were falling, men and women, children even, rolling down the steep slopes into the moat, or falling under the feet of the mass, milling about, stampeded, driven in upon itself from all sides. Now the multitude had found its voice, but it was inarticulate, shrieks, cries and groans mingling into a vast volume of sound, meaningless, inhuman.

Another half minute. Again the bugle, followed by a single volley. Another half minute, another volley. The crowd was like insane creatures, those at the edges fighting their way in, those in the middle struggling frantically to escape, and, every thirty seconds, the bugle call, and the single sharp volley, with military precision, from all sides.

"I didn't think they had it in them, that they had that much imagination," there was open admiration in the Russian's tone now. "Don't you see it, Kent-san, the devilish cleverness of it all. It's not the shooting that's the worst; it's the suspense, the waiting, the bugle call and the knowledge of the death that comes with it. That's what they will remember to their dying day, all those who escape, if they let any one escape. That'll take the heart out of them. Such is life, the life of a revolutionist, Kent-san. They're setting us back ten years to-day, damn them, but we'll get them in the end."

Time had come for the next bugle call. It seemed overdue, a longer interval than before. They almost wanted it to come, to have it over with. Surely the interval was long. They began to glance about, at one another. Was it possible? Face peered anxiously into face, each seeking to read confirmation of his own hope. Had the killing really ceased, or was this but another refinement of cruelty?

"No, it's over; they've finished; the soldiers are retiring." It was the professor with the field glass. At the same time there came from in front of them, like a ripple of sound passing rapidly, quaveringly, through the mob, a whisper, then the rumor spoken aloud but in the doubting tone of unbelief; finally in shouts: "The Prince Regent, the Prince Regent. He stopped it. He told the militarists that he would not have them kill His people. His people. The Prince Regent!"

The emotions of the crowds were still too conflicting to allow definite united form of expression, joy, sorrow, relief. The cries of the dying and wounded became audible now to the individuals, who until this had been concerned only with their own frantic fears, listening for the death-signaling bugle. Evidently the cordons about Hibiya had been withdrawn, for the crowd became suddenly augmented. New arrivals who had not been set trembling by suspense of expectation of death, saw the dead, raised their hands in wrath. Shouts for vengeance, cries from the wounded, trembling hysteria of those who had escaped the debacle all mingled in a chaos of confusion of sound, of movement, of minds.

"Now's the time, you fools," Kent heard the Russian's hoarse whisper to those about him. "In this moment you win or lose the revolution. All that's needed now is a leader. Come on, lead them, demolish the General Staff. Here, take some of these." Kent caught a glimpse of dark lemon-shaped objects, with crisscross furrows, as they passed from hand to hand. "I don't suppose you want one," he grinned to Kent. "You don't know how much history there may be crammed into one of these little things. Anyway, come along."

The others had already started, making their way through the mob. The professors and the rest, Sadako-san, Ishii, even Kikuchi. He caught the young diplomat's arm. "What the devil are you doing in this, Kikuchi? You had better get back to the Foreign Office where you belong."

"Don't be a fool, Kent, don't be a fool," the young fellow's face was ecstatic, eyes brilliantly flashing. "Don't you see it, Kent? He is with us, the Prince Regent, with the people. He must be at the Kasumigaseki Palace, right across the way from the General Staff building. He must have seen with his own eyes almost, and he stopped them. He is with us, the people; what in hell does it matter whether we be Foreign Office mannikins or proletariat; we all are the people of Japan, the nation, and we all want just that one thing, the overthrow of the militarists and of the bureaucrats."

They had reached the edge of the mob at the foot of the wide driveway leading to the General Staff building. Most of the soldiers had disappeared; only a thin cordon guarded the approach. Behind them, scattered in the throng, they could hear voices of leaders shouting. "To the General Staff; this way; throw them out; to the General Staff!" The cry was taken up; it became a roar; again the mob took common direction. Presently they found themselves in the front rank, pressed steadily forwards by the urge of the multitude behind them. Kent was pushed upwards with the rest of the group, Sadako-san, Kikuchi, Ishii, LÜttich and the others, closer and closer to the line of soldiers, being driven steadily nearer the extended bayonet points. The officer in charge, a captain, Prussian-mustached, scowling at the advancing crowd, was directly in front of them. They could see him biting his lips, finger nervously playing about his automatic, suspense, indecision, plainly written on his face. A stone thrown by some one in the crowd whizzed past him. Kent heard him bark out something, some order; instantly the rifles of the soldiers had leaped into position at their shoulders. By the gods, they were about to fire!

Those in the front rank of the mob tried to push backwards, but were held fast by those behind. Instinctively Kent placed his arm about Sadako, glaring up at the soldiers. Another gruff military order was barked out, hoarse, unintelligible. The rifles came to rest. The soldiers began to retreat slowly. "That was Matsu himself gave that order." Kent heard the excited whisper of Kikuchi right in his ear. "That's one thing about these militarists, at least. They obey orders. Look, there he is."

He had come forward, an old man in field uniform with a single great silver decoration, almost as large as a saucer, below his breast. He was waving back, impatiently, other officers who evidently wished to stay with him, barked out some command to them imperiously. Then he turned, facing the mob, white-haired head erect, hand on sword hilt, silent, proud, impressive.

"By the gods, they are no cowards, anyway, these militarists," Kent flung the words back over his shoulder to Kikuchi. "One man against a nation."

"He accepts the responsibility. What else can he do?" The old Japanese formula, the gentleman's creed.

Those in the front rank tried to hold back, impressed, awed at this solitary old man, glaring at them defiantly through steel-rimmed spectacles. But those behind pressed on. Stones began to fly; suddenly a shot sounded from the right. The general slumped into a heap; he tried to raise one hand, collapsed, was quiet.

The captain of the cordon swung about, facing the crowd, face twitching, teeth bared like a snarling beast. Eyes popping, he waved his heavy automatic at those in front, yelling at them maniacally. "Cowards, scum, animals." He was plainly entirely mad. "Yes, and women too; take that!"

The gun spat directly at Sadako, within a couple of feet of her breast. Kent felt her become limp suddenly in his arm. As he clung to her, he sensed something hard worming itself in from behind between him and the girl. Damn it! He struggled for room in the mob. A dull roar of sound, powerful, stunned him as if an impact had suddenly pressed against his side. Dazedly, as through a blur, he saw the figure of the captain reel backwards, pistol sagging, then tumbling into a heap. A roar went up from the mob behind them. The surge forward became insistent. A few of them, Kent, Kikuchi, Ishii, managed to hold up the girl, as the multitude rushed on past them.

"Here, to the left." Kikuchi was breaking a way. "Let us bring her to my office. We can take her in through the side gate just across the way."

They battled their way through the mob slowly, desperately. From above came the roar of sound, clamor of the crowd, explosions. Just as they were about to reach the side gate, LÜttich appeared, hatless, wild-eyed.

"Here, there's not time for this." He caught the shoulder of one of the Japanese, a burly labor leader. "They have fired the General Staff building; now is the time for a clean sweep. Come on, help lead them to the palace, the Emperor's palace."

"The palace!" The man stared at the Russian, mouth open, dumbfounded. "The Emperor!" Then, as realization suddenly dawned on him, he crashed his fist into the other's face. "Fool, beast!"

The Russian stepped back, bumped into Kent. In his astonishment he did not seem to notice the physical pain. "And that's the crowd I've been making bombs for; can you——"

He was swept away by the throng. They managed to gain the Foreign Office grounds, carried the girl to Kikuchi's office and placed her on a lounge. Kent pulled away the eri neckband and the upper part of the kimono. There it was, in the left breast, blue-black against the whiteness, a small spot, a few drops of blood. She seemed unconscious, groaned but a little.

"Here, Ishii." Kikuchi took charge. "There should be a doctor at the American Embassy on a day like this. Get out through the entrance on the other side, across the tennis court and through Sannencho Lane. If any one stops you, show them this Foreign Office seal on the envelope. Here," he turned to Kent. "Sign this. I'm asking them to send a doctor over here."

Apparently all the Foreign Office people had gathered in the main building. In this wing it was quiet, but with a roaring background of sound, as of surf pounding on rocks, the clamor of the mob outside. The girl stirred, opened her eyes. "Hugh-san," her hand faltered towards him. "It's good you're here, Hugh-san."

"What's that; so she's a friend of yours, Kent." But Kikuchi received no answer. He looked at the other, who had thrown himself in front of the couch, leaning over the girl; then he tiptoed out of the room.

The girl had fallen into a stupor again. From outside a roaring crackle became louder and louder. The windows crimsoned with vitreous red glitter.

"Hugh-san," she was trying to raise her head, the voice faint, dreamy. "See, sunrise over the mountains again; but I want to sleep some more, I'm tired." Poor little girl, evidently her mind was back in Hakone. "Hugh-san, sing some more," her hand falteringly sought his. "Sing the 'rock-a-by baby' song again."

"Yes, yes, go to sleep, dear. You'll be all right presently; but now you must just sleep." He smoothed her hair.

"Yes, I'll sleep; but you must sing to me, Hugh-san." The weak voice was insistent.

Sing! Must this damned grotesque inspiration pursue him even into the shadow of death! It was monstrous, impossible, this necessity of drooling nursery nonsense in the very shadow of racking tragedy. He cleared his voice, contrived a croaking sound, choked, tried again, managed it. Leaning forward over her, he intoned his miserable ditty. "Rock-a-by, baby——" he began even to find a sort of comfort in it, the monotonous repetition of the meaningless stanzas; kept droning them mechanically, endlessly,—"when the wind blows the cradle will rock——" The impression of a large, white hand on the girl's breast just before him took form in his mind. He looked up. It was the new doctor from St. Luke's.

"Unless you are singing for your own edification, Mr. Kent, you might as well stop." The voice was cold, registered the young man's intense disapproval. "This girl is dead, stone dead."

He stared. It was, of course, what he had expected; still the announcement, the definite irrevocableness thereof stunned him. A new figure, a woman's, came into the field of his vision. Sylvia. He stretched out his hand to her.

They stood there, hand in hand, he and Sylvia, gazing at the dead girl. "The poor, dear little thing." There were tears in the girl's voice. "How beautiful she is."

"Beautiful." The thought came to him of the peculiarly luminous radiance of her eyes. "That's just what makes me so sick of this whole thing, Sylvia, the wanton waste and destruction of the process of compelling the grace and beauty of Japan into the cramping forms of our civilization: that it is these women, these girls who must suffer. What do I care for the men, even the young boys, who have been slaughtered to-day! That's part of the game, man's price for that which we call progress of civilization. That's all right. But these girls, these infinitely delicate and beautiful beings, made for sunlight, and fragrance, and flowers; but they are drawn, attracted into the whirl and whirr of the wheels of our civilization, and they hurt them, tear and mangle them, in mind, in spirit, or in body, and cast them forth." He stared misty-eyed at the figure before them, with its bright crimson obi band, delicately tinted kimono sleeve drooping outspread towards the floor. "Like that, dead, crushed—broken butterflies."

Outside, the tumult and clamor of the mob was increasing. All were facing the palace gate at Sakuradamon. "Banzai." The cry came from those on the bridge. "Banzai. Long live the Emperor. Long live Japan. Banzai." The roar was taken up by the other thousands, rose heavenwards, about the rumble and crackle from the flaming furnace of the General Staff building.

Kikuchi slammed open the window. "Come on," he turned to Kent, ecstatic, strident-voiced. "We have won. The tyrants are finished. Now we shall build up Japan, make it a great nation, the Emperor and the people together. Banzai." He threw his arm around the shoulder of Ishii. Together they leaned far out of the window, aristocrat and office boy, their voices blending with the thunderous pÆan of the multitude:

"Banzai, banzai."

End