But it's all dark. Are those lights? No. It's
too late. I can't save her from it."
So he wandered physically and mentally. Wandered till sounds of martial
music came up through the broken window. "Fall in," cried Peter. "The
Anarchists are after her. It's dynamite, not lightning. Podds, Don't let
them hurt her. Save her. Oh! save her I Why can't I get to her? Don't
try to hold me," he cried, as he came in contact with a chair. He caught
it up and hurled it across the room, so that it crashed into the
picture-frames, smashing chair and frames into fragments. "I can't be
the one to throw it," he cried, in an agonized voice. "She's all I have.
For years I've been so lonely. Don't I can't throw it. It kills me to
see her suffer. It wouldn't be so horrible if I hadn't done it myself.
If I didn't love her so. But to blow her up myself. I can't. Men, will
you stand by me, and help me to save her?"
The band of music stopped. A moment's silence fell and then up from the
street, came the air of: "Marching through Georgia," five thousand
voices singing:
"Rally round our party, boys;
Rally to the blue,
And battle for our candidate,
So sterling and so true,
Fight for honest government, boys,
And down the vicious crew;
Voting for freedom and Stirling.
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