I recall the stumbling sound
of steps on the wooden boards, a laugh or two, the high voice of
a woman asserting and denying. Feeling our way along the wall, we
came to the top and went into a long, low, rather dimly lighted
room set about with tables and chairs--a sort of restaurant. A
number of men and a few women had already gathered there. Among
them my eyes instantly singled out a huge, rough-looking man who
stood at the centre of an animated group. He had thick, shaggy
hair, and one side of his face over the cheekbone was of a dull
blue-black and raked and scarred, where it had been burned in a
Powder blast. He had been a miner. His gray eyes, which had a
surprisingly youthful and even humorous expression, looked out
from under coarse, thick, gray brows. A very remarkable face and
figure he presented. I soon learned that he was R--- D---, the
leader of whom I had often heard, and heard no good thing. He
was quite a different type from Bill Hahn: he was the man of
authority, the organizer, the diplomat--as Bill was the prophet,
preaching a holy war.
How wonderful human nature is! Only a short time before I had
been thrilled by the intensity of the passion of the throng, but
here the mood suddenly changed to one of friendly gayety.
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