Many times that night the howling mob surged back and forth through the streets. Shooting continued till daylight and then the soldiers went about with sacks of silver and veritable bales of notes, drunk with a new enthusiasm, throwing money to every man, woman and child whom they met in the streets. ''Give the people their own," they shouted and the people did not hesitate to scramble for it. Towards morning the old Taoist dozed. When he awoke the foreigner was gone and at a nearby table sat a group of six men. One was the surly soldier who had fired the signal shots. His arm was bandaged and had been bleeding. There were two other soldiers, and the sixth was the Duke of Chan, naked to the waist, a dirty towel tied about a bleeding forehead and a scabbardless headsman's sword resting against the bench on which he sat. They were conversing in hoarse and tired voices and clearing their throats with tea. The old Taoist stared at them with drowsy eyes, then when he recognized his travelling companion of the evening before, he took from his breast a crumpled newspaper, which he had picked up from the floor during the night, ran his eye over it until he came to the Presidential Mandates, then carried it across to the table where the party sat. As he smoothed it upon the table before the Duke he pointed to a line with an emaciated finger and looked into his face without speaking.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.