In contrast with this foreigner, confronting him, a young lieutenant stood motionless, his head cocked on one side, his hand grasping the club held a little behind him, his glance meeting the other’s squarely, but with a different quality of defiance.  All his faculties were on the alert.  He wore no overcoat, and the uniform fitting close to his figure, the broad-brimmed campaign hat of felt served to bring into relief the physical characteristics of the American Anglo-Saxon, of the individualist who became the fighting pioneer.  But Janet, save to register the presence of the intense antagonism between the two, scarcely noticed her fellow countryman....  Every moment she expected to see the black man spring,—­and yet movement would have marred the drama of that consuming hatred....

Then, by one of those bewildering, kaleidoscopic shifts to which crowds are subject, the scene changed, more troops arrived, little by little the people were dispersed to drift together again by chance—­in smaller numbers—­several blocks away.  Perhaps a hundred and fifty were scattered over the space formed by the intersection of two streets, where three or four special policemen with night sticks urged them on.  Not a riot, or anything approaching it.  The police were jeered, but the groups, apparently, had already begun to scatter, when from the triangular vestibule of a saloon on the corner darted a flame followed by an echoing report, a woman bundled up in a shawl screamed and sank on the snow.  For an instant the little French-Canadian policeman whom the shot had missed gazed stupidly down at her....

As Janet ran along the dark pavements the sound of the shot and of the woman’s shriek continued to ring in her ears.  At last she stopped in front of the warehouse beyond Mr. Tiernan’s shop, staring at the darkened windows of the flat—­of the front room in which her mother now slept alone.  For a minute she stood looking at these windows, as though hypnotized by some message they conveyed—­the answer to a question suggested by the incident that had aroused and terrified her.  They drew her, as in a trance, across the street, she opened the glass-panelled door, remembering mechanically the trick it had of not quite closing, turned and pushed it to and climbed the stairs.  In the diningroom the metal lamp, brightly polished, was burning as usual, its light falling on the chequered red table-cloth, on her father’s empty chair, on that somewhat battered heirloom, the horsehair sofa.  All was so familiar, and yet so amazingly unfamiliar, so silent!  At this time Edward should be reading the Banner, her mother bustling in and out, setting the table for supper.  But not a dish was set.  The ticking of the ancient clock only served to intensify the silence.  Janet entered, almost on tiptoe, made her way to the kitchen door, and looked in.  The stove was polished, the pans bright upon the wall, and Hannah was seated in a corner, her hands folded across a spotless apron.  Her scant hair was now pure white, her dress seemed to have fallen away from her wasted neck, which was like a trefoil column.