and in a sling.

They had not been able to get near him at the time; the excitement in
the square had been too fierce; but a messenger had come to his wife
with the news that her husband was only slightly wounded, and was in the
hands of the doctors.

"He was a Catholic," explained the drawn-faced Oliver. "He must have
come ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chance
for a priest this time."

Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man's fate on the placards.

"He was killed--trampled and strangled instantly," said Oliver. "I did
what I could: you saw me. But--well, I dare say it was more merciful."

"But you did what you could, my dear?" said the old lady, anxiously,
from her corner.

"I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn't hear me."

Mabel leaned forward---

"Oliver, I know this sounds stupid of me; but--but I wish they had not
killed him."

Oliver smiled at her. He knew this tender trait in her.

"It would have been more perfect if they had not," she said. Then she
broke off and sat back.

"Why did he shoot just then?" she asked.

Oliver turned his eyes for an instant towards his mother, but she was
knitting tranquilly.

Then he answered with a curious deliberateness.

"I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech than
Jesus and all His saints put together." He was aware that the
knitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again as
before.

"But he must have meant to do it anyhow," continued Oliver.

"How do they know he was a Catholic?" asked the girl again.

"There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on his
God."

"And nothing more is known?"

"Nothing more. He was well dressed, though."

Oliver leaned back a little wearily and closed his eyes; his arm still
throbbed intolerably. But he was very happy at heart. It was true that
he had been wounded by a fanatic, but he was not sorry to bear pain in
such a cause, and it was obvious that the sympathy of England was with
him. Mr. Phillips even now was busy in the next room, answering the
telegrams that poured in every moment. Caldecott, the Prime Minister,
Maxwell, Snowford and a dozen others had wired instantly their
congratulations, and from every part of England streamed in message
after message. It was an immense stroke for the Communists; their
spokesman had been assaulted during the discharge of his duty, speaking
in defence of his principles; it was