The wrongs and insults, which the people had been suffering for many months, now kindled them into a rage.  They threw snow-balls and lumps of ice at the soldiers.  As the tumult grew louder, it reached the ears of Captain Preston, the officer of the day.  He immediately ordered eight soldiers of the main guard to take their muskets and follow him.  They marched across the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd, and pricking the town’s-people with their bayonets.

A gentleman, (it was Henry Knox, afterwards general of the American artillery,) caught Captain Preston’s arm.

“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” exclaimed he, take heed what you do, or here will be bloodshed.”

“Stand aside!” answered Captain Preston, haughtily.  “Do not interfere, sir.  Leave me to manage the affair.”

Arriving at the sentinel’s post, Captain Preston drew up his men in a semi-circle, with their faces to the crowd and their rear to the custom-house.  “When the people saw the officer, and beheld the threatening attitude with which the soldiers fronted them, their rage became almost uncontrollable.

“Fire, you lobster-backs!” bellowed some.

“You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats,” cried others.

“Rush upon them!” shouted many voices.  “Drive the rascals to their barracks!  Down with them!  Down with them!  Let them fire, if they dare!”

Amid the uproar, the soldiers stood glaring at the people, with the fierceness of men whose trade was to shed blood.

Oh, what a crisis had now arrived!  Up to this very moment, the angry feelings between England and America might have been pacified.  England had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation, and acknowledge that she had hitherto mistaken her rights but would do so no more.  Then, the ancient bonds of brotherhood would again have been knit together, as firmly as in old times.  The habit of loyalty, which had grown as strong as instinct, was not utterly overcome.  The perils shared, the victories won, in the Old French War, when the soldiers of the colonies fought side by side with their comrades from beyond the sea, were unforgotten yet.  England was still that beloved country which the colonists called their home.  King George, though he had frowned upon America, was still reverenced as a father.

But, should the king’s soldiers shed one drop of American blood, then it was a quarrel to the death.  Never—­never would America rest satisfied, until she had torn down the royal authority, and trampled it in the dust.

“Fire, if you dare, villains!” hoarsely shouted the people, while the muzzles of the muskets were turned upon them; “you dare not fire!”

They appeared ready to rush upon the levelled bayonets.  Captain Preston waved his sword, and uttered a command which could not be distinctly heard, amid the uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats.  But his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal mandate—­“fire!” The flash of their muskets lighted up the street, and the report rang loudly between the edifices.  It was said, too, that the figure of a man with a cloth hanging down over his face, was seen to step into the balcony of the custom-house, and discharge a musket at the crowd.