took hold of him, stirred him, emboldened him. The hall
opened to him, a vast welter of fluttering colour swaying to the music.

"Wave your arm to them," said Lincoln. "Wave your arm to them."

"This," said a voice on the other side, "he must have this." Arms were
about his neck detaining him in the doorway, and a black subtly-folding
mantle hung from his shoulders. He threw his arm free of this and
followed Lincoln. He perceived the girl in grey close to him, her face
lit, her gesture onward. For the instant she became to him, flushed and
eager as she was, an embodiment of the song. He emerged in the alcove
again. Incontinently the mounting waves of the song broke upon his
appearing, and flashed up into a foam of shouting. Guided by Lincoln's
hand he marched obliquely across the centre of the stage facing the
people.

The hall was a vast and intricate space--galleries, balconies, broad
spaces of amphitheatral steps, and great archways. Far away, high up,
seemed the mouth of a huge passage full of struggling humanity. The
whole multitude was swaying in congested masses. Individual figures
sprang out of the tumult, impressed him momentarily, and lost definition
again. Close to the platform swayed a beautiful fair woman, carried by
three men, her hair across her face and brandishing a green staff. Next
this group an old careworn man in blue canvas maintained his place in
the crush with difficulty, and behind shouted a hairless face, a
great cavity of toothless mouth. A voice called that enigmatical word
"Ostrog." All his impressions were vague save the massive emotion
of that trampling song. The multitude were beating time with their
feet--marking time, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The green weapons waved,
flashed and slanted. Then he saw those nearest to him on a level space
before the stage were marching in front of him, passing towards a great
archway, shouting "To the Council!" Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. He
raised his arm, and the roaring was redoubled. He remembered he had to
shout "March!" His mouth shaped inaudible heroic words. He waved his arm
again and pointed to the archway, shouting "Onward!" They were no longer
marking time, they were marching; tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. In that
host were bearded men, old men, youths, fluttering robed bare-armed
women, girls. Men and women of the new age! Rich robes, grey rags
fluttered together in the whirl of their movement amidst the dominant
blue. A monstrous black ba