was a "stalwart," in war-time a "renegade."

The street leading to the chapel which had been engaged seemed quiet
enough. Designed to make an impression on public opinion, every care had
been taken that the meeting should not attract the public eye. God's
protection had been enlisted, but two policemen also stood at the
entrance, and half a dozen others were suspiciously near by. A thin
trickle of persons, mostly women, were passing through the door. Colin
Wilderton, making his way up the aisle to the platform, wrinkled his
nose, thinking: "Stuffy in here." It had always been his misfortune to
love his neighbours individually, but to dislike them in a bunch. On the
platform some fifteen men and women were already gathered. He seated
himself modestly in the back row, while John Rudstock, less retiring,
took his place at the chairman's right hand. The speakers began with a
precipitancy hardly usual at a public meeting. Wilderton listened, and
thought: "Dreadfully cliche; why can't someone say straight out that
boys enough have been killed?" He had become conscious of a muttering
noise, too, as of the tide coming in on a heavy wind; it broke suddenly
into component parts--human voices clamouring outside. He heard blows
raining on the door, saw sticks smashing in the windows. The audience
had risen to its feet, some rushing to defend the doors, others standing
irresolute. John Rudstock was holding up the chair he had been sitting
on. Wilderton had just time to think: "I thought so," when a knot of
young men in khaki burst into the chapel, followed by a crowd. He knew
he was not much good in a scrimmage, but he placed himself at once in
front of the nearest woman. At that moment, however, some soldiers,
pouring through a side-door, invaded the platform from behind, and threw
him down the steps. He arrived at the bottom with a bump, and was unable
to get up because of the crowd around him. Someone fell over him; it was
Rudstock, swearing horribly. He still had the chair in his hand, for it
hit Wilderton a nasty blow. The latter saw his friend recover his feet
and swing the weapon, and with each swing down went some friend or foe,
until he had cleared quite a space round him. Wilderton, still weak and
dizzy from his fall, sat watching this Homeric battle. Chairs, books,
stools, sticks were flying at Rudstock, who parried them, or diverted
their course so that they carried on and hit Wilderton, or crashed
against the platform. H