"There are other plans afoot," was the retort. "That is why the soldiers
are present."

"Our plans, I suppose," Ernest sneered. "Assassination or something
kindred."

But at the word "assassination" the uproar broke out again. Ernest could
not make himself heard, but he remained on his feet waiting for a lull.
And then it happened. From my place in the gallery I saw nothing except
the flash of the explosion. The roar of it filled my ears and I saw
Ernest reeling and falling in a swirl of smoke, and the soldiers rushing
up all the aisles. His comrades were on their feet, wild with anger,
capable of any violence. But Ernest steadied himself for a moment, and
waved his arms for silence.

"It is a plot!" his voice rang out in warning to his comrades. "Do
nothing, or you will be destroyed."

Then he slowly sank down, and the soldiers reached him. The next moment
soldiers were clearing the galleries and I saw no more.

Though he was my husband, I was not permitted to get to him. When I
announced who I was, I was promptly placed under arrest. And at the same
time were arrested all socialist Congressmen in Washington, including
the unfortunate Simpson, who lay ill with typhoid fever in his hotel.

The trial was prompt and brief. The men were foredoomed. The wonder
was that Ernest was not executed. This was a blunder on the part of
the Oligarchy, and a costly one. But the Oligarchy was too confident in
those days. It was drunk with success, and little did it dream that