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 strange mysterious way to bring Sir Peter's gloomy forebodings within the range of possibility. One long gasping exclamation of wonder and delight swept through the vast crowd, swaying it from end to end. 'But surely they are all loyal,' I said, trying to shake off the uncanny feeling that was taking possession of me. 'Loyal,' he repeated contemptuously. 'Loyal, it may be. But what does the loyalty of the crowd weigh against the one man who throws the bomb?' 'Oh, surely that is one of the things the native of India has not yet done,' I protested. 'It is merely a question of time,' he stated decisively. 'Eventually they will find out their strength. Then heaven help those of us who are still left here.' We had nearly come to the end of the fireworks. They were showing portraits in fire—wonderful likenesses of the Viceroy and Vicereine, the Duke and Duchess of Connaught, and Lord Kitchener. They kind of gave me confidence. They were so very prosaic after those strange and fantastic displays of dancing, dazzling lights. But Sir Peter still harped on tragedies.

'Let alone actual premeditated violence, the danger is appalling enough,' he was saying. 'You never can tell what an Eastern crowd may do. Panic may suddenly seize it, or a wave of fanaticism sweep it off its feet and rob it of all self-control and reason. Or even given none of these things, hundreds may be trampled upon and crushed to death in the