atchman had joined the mob, and was at that moment selecting
a rifle from a cart. Around the cart were students, still in their
Carnival finery, wearing the colors of his own corps. Haeckel, desperate
of eye, pallid and gaunt, clad still in his hospital shirt and trousers;
Haeckel climbed on to the wagon, and mounted to the seat, a strange,
swaying figure, with a bandage on his head. In spite of that, there were
some who knew him.

"Haeckel!" they cried. The word spread. The crowd of students pressed
close.

"What would you do?" he cried to them. "You know me. You see me now.
I have been done almost to death by those you would aid. Aye, arm
yourselves, but not against your King. We have sworn to stand together.
I call on you, men of my corps, to follow me. There are those who
to-night will murder the little King and put King Mob on the throne. And
they be those who have tortured roe. Look at me! This they have done to
me." He tore the bandage off and showed his scarred head. "'Quick!" he
cried. "I know where they hide, these spawn of hell. Who will follow me?
To the King!"

"To the King!"

They took up the cry, a few at first, then all of them. More than his
words, the gaunt and wounded figure of Haeckel in the cart fought for
him. He reeled before them. Two leaped up and steadied him, finally,
indeed, took him on their shoulders, and led the way. They made a wedge
of men, and pushed through the mob.

"To the little King!" was the cry they raised, and ran, a flying wedge
of white, fantastic figures. Those who were unarmed seized weapons
from the crowd as they passed. Urged by Haeckel, they ran through the
streets.

Haeckel knew. It was because he had known that they had done away with
him. His mind, working now with almost unnatural activity, flew ahead
to the house in the Road of the Good Children, and to what might be
enacting there. His eyes burned. Now at last he would thwart them,
unless-- Just before they turned into the street, a horseman had dashed
out of it and flung himself out of the saddle. The door was bolted,
but it opened to his ring, and Nikky faced the concierge, Nikky, with a
drawn revolver in his hand, and a face deathly white.

He had had no time to fire, no time even to speak. The revolver flew
out of his hand at one blow from the flail-like arms of the concierge.
Behind him somewhere was coming, Nikky knew, a detachment of cavalry.
But he had outdistanced them, riding frenziedly, had leape