“But this is a stupid game,” said Benham.  “Why did they fire at all?”

The tall man who had led the mob had run out into the middle of the road.  His commando was a little disposed to assume a marginal position, and it had to be reassured.  He was near enough for Benham to see his face.  For a time it looked anxious and thoughtful.  Then he seemed to jump to his decision.  He unbuttoned and opened his coat wide as if defying the soldiers.  “Shoot,” he bawled, “Shoot, if you dare!”

A little uniform movement of the soldiers answered him.  The small figure of the officer away there was inaudible.  The coat of the man below flapped like the wings of a crowing cock before a breast of dirty shirt, the hoarse voice cracked with excitement, “Shoot, if you dare.  Shoot, if you dare!  See!”

Came the metallic bang of the carbines again, and in the instant the leader collapsed in the road, a sprawl of clothes, hit by half a dozen bullets.  It was an extraordinary effect.  As though the figure had been deflated.  It was incredible that a moment before this thing had been a man, an individual, a hesitating complicated purpose.

“Good God!” cried Benham, “but—­this is horrible!”

The heap of garments lay still.  The red hand that stretched out towards the soldiers never twitched.

The spectacular silence broke into a confusion of sounds, women shrieked, men cursed, some fled, some sought a corner from which they might still see, others pressed forward.  “Go for the swine!” bawled a voice, a third volley rattled over the heads of the people, and in the road below a man with a rifle halted, took aim, and answered the soldiers’ fire.  “Look out!” cried White who was watching the soldiers, and ducked.  “This isn’t in the air!”

Came a straggling volley again, like a man running a metal hammer very rapidly along iron corrugations, and this time people were dropping all over the road.  One white-faced man not a score of yards away fell with a curse and a sob, struggled up, staggered for some yards with blood running abundantly from his neck, and fell and never stirred again.  Another went down upon his back clumsily in the roadway and lay wringing his hands faster and faster until suddenly with a movement like a sigh they dropped inert by his side.  A straw-hatted youth in a flannel suit ran and stopped and ran again.  He seemed to be holding something red and strange to his face with both hands; above them his eyes were round and anxious.  Blood came out between his fingers.  He went right past the hotel and stumbled and suddenly sprawled headlong at the opposite corner.  The majority of the crowd had already vanished into doorways and side streets.  But there was still shouting and there was still a remnant of amazed and angry men in the roadway—­and one or two angry women.  They were not fighting.  Indeed they were unarmed, but if they had had weapons now they would certainly have used them.