Gabriel was caught and whirled along in that living tide. He found
himself at its crest, its foremost wave. Behind him, a roaring, rushing
river of men. Before the Inner Citadel.
Gathering speed and weight as it rolled up, the wave broke like an ocean
surge over a crumbling dyke.
Down went the Air Trust gunners and the guns, down, down to
annihilation!
Through the breach, foaming and swelling with irresistible power burst
the tides of victory.
Silenced now were the Trust guns. The steam-jets had none to man them.
Far aloft, a last explosion told the death story of the final
_epervier_.
Here and there, from windows and corners of the wrecked and blazing
plant, a little intermittent firing still continued; but now the hearts
of these Air Trust defenders--scabs, thugs and scourings of the
slum--had turned to water, in face of the triumphant army of the working
class.
They fled, those mercenaries, and all the ways and inner
strongholds--such as still were left--now lay open to Gabriel and his
comrades.
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