A hundred for one. Mortal danger to whoever touches the worker's bread, or the bread of the worker's son. All that the worker has created at the cost of his sacrifices, all that generations of workers have slowly and painfully wrought with blood and with sorrow, must be respected as something sacred. The tempest and the hurricane break when sacrilege is committed, and carry away the guilty like straws. Mortal danger to whoever touches the property of the worker, of the man condemned to have no property.
War is war.
Woe betide whoever unleashes it. A militant of the working class who has to pass into the next world, must have a first-class accompaniment on his journey. If fire dyes red the patch of sky over one street, the city must be provided with many braziers to warm the women and children of the workers who have gone to war. Woe betide whoever unleashes war.