dience were galvanised into an
intensity of confused emotion by the entrance of the Executive of the
Allied Unions, led by McNish himself. Simmons alone was absent, being
at that moment, with some half dozen others, in the care of the police.
Silently the Executive Committee walked to the front and found seats,
McNish alone remaining standing. Grey, gaunt, hollow-eyed, he met with
steady gaze the eyes of the audience, some of them aflame with hostile
wrath, for in him they recognised the responsible head of the labour
movement that had wrought such disaster and grief in the community.

Without apology or preface McNish began: "I am here seeking peace," he
said, in his hoarse, hard, guttural voice. "I have made mistakes. Would
I could suffer for them alone, but no, others must suffer with me. I
have only condemnation for the outrages of last night. We repudiate
them, we lament them. We tried to prevent them, but human passion and
circumstances were too strong for us. We would undo the ill--would to
God could undo the ill. How gladly would I suffer all that has come to
others." His deep, harsh voice shook under the stress of his emotion.
He lifted his head: "I cannot deny my cause," he continued, his voice
ringing out clear. "Our cause was right, but the spirit was wrong." He
paused a few moments, evidently gathering strength to hold his voice
steady. "Yes, the spirit was wrong and this day is a black day to me. We
come to ask for peace. God knows I have no heart for war."

Again he paused, his strong stern face working strangely under the
stress of the emotions which he was fighting to subdue. "We suggest a
committee of three, with powers to arbitrate, and we name as our man one
who till recently was one of our Union, a man of fair and honest mind,
a man without fear and with a heart for his comrades. Our man is Captain
Maitland."

His words, and especially the name of the representative of the labour
unions produced an overwhelming effect upon the audience. No sooner had
he finished than the Reverend Murdo Matheson took the floor. He spoke no
economics. He offered no elaborate argument for peace. In plain, simple
words he told of experiences through which he had recently passed:

"Like one whom I feel it an honour to call my father," he began, bowing
toward Dr. Templeton, "I, too, have made a visit this morning. Not to
a home, but to a place the most unlike a home of any spot in this sad
world, a jail. Seven of our f