You try to make slaves
of free citizens of the world!" Krylovensky had been buffeted and had
controlled himself. But the fires of his narrow fanaticism were now
whirling in his brain; sitting there on high before the eyes of his
fellows, the men to whom he had been preaching the doctrines of soviet
sovereignty--the supremacy of the people--he had just suffered what his
distorted views held as the enormity of ignominy; he had been used as a
clothes-tree for discarded garments. Used by a ruler!
When Morrison, not realizing that the man had become little short of a
maniac, stooped to pick up the garments Krylovensky dove forward and
struck the mayor's face with open hand. "Now throw me to your dogs! I'll
die a martyr to my cause!" he squalled.
The mayor snapped upright and laid restraining hands on the man who was
threatening him with doubled fists.
A roaring mob came milling toward the platform.
"I'll be a martyr!" insisted the alien.
"I can't humor you to that extent," replied Morrison, in the tone of a
father denying indulgence in the case of a wilful child.
He got between the man and the mob. He held Krylovensky from him with one
hand and put up the other protestingly, authoritatively.
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