troubles are about? The Sleeper? Eh? You think the Sleeper's real and woke of his own accord—eh?"
"I'm a dull man, older than I look, and forgetful," said Graham. "Lots of things that have happened—especially of late years——. If I was the Sleeper, to tell you the truth, I couldn't know less about them."
"Eh!" said the voice. "Old, are you? You don't sound so very old! But it's not every one keeps his memory to my time of life—truly. But these notorious things! But you're not so old as me—not nearly so old as me. Well! I ought not to judge other men by myself, perhaps. I'm young—for so old a man. Maybe you're old for so young."
"That's it," said Graham. "And I've a queer history. I know very little. History! Practically I know no history. The Sleeper and Julius Cæsar are all the same to me. It's interesting to hear you talk of these things."
"I know a few things," said the old man. "I know a thing or two. But——. Hark!"
The two men became silent, listening. There was heavy thud, a concussion that made their seat shiver. The passers-by stopped, shouted to one another. The old man was full of questions; he shouted to a man who passed near. Graham, emboldened by his example, got up and accosted others. None knew what had happened.
He returned to the seat and found the old man muttering vague interrogations in an undertone. For a while they said nothing to one another.
The sense of this gigantic struggle, so near and yet so remote, oppressed Graham's imagination. Was this old man right, was the report of the people right, and were the revolutionaries winning? Or were they all in error, and were the red guards driving all before them? At any time the flood of warfare might pour into this silent quarter of the city and seize
