ateful voice--he, approaching in ignorance,
must be still. The voice, in its strident passion, rose again.

"The country for a man to serve is the country that serves him. The
country that serves him is the one without a king. Has this country a
king? It has a thousand kings and a million more that want to be. How
many kings do you want to reign over you? How many are you going to
accept? It is in your hands."

It ceased, and another voice, lower but full of a suppressed passion,
took up the tale, though in a foreign tongue. Jeff knew the first one
now: Weedon Moore's. He read at once the difference between Moore's
voice and this that followed. Moore's had been imploring in its
assertiveness, the desire to convince. The other, in the strange
language, carried belief and sorrow even. It also longed to convince,
but out of an inner passion hot as the flame of love or grief. The moon,
riding superbly, and coming that minute out of her cloud, unveiled the
scene. An automobile had halted on a slight elevation and in it stood
Moore and a taller man gesticulating as he spoke. And about them, like a
pulsing carpet lifted and stirred by a breeze of feeling, were the men
Jeff's instinct had smelled out. They were packed into a mass. And they
were silent. Weedon Moore began again.

"Kill out this superstition of a country. Kill it out, I say. Kill out
this idea of going back to dead men for rules to live by. The dead are
dead. Their Bibles and their laws are dead. There's more life in one of
you men that has tasted it through living and suffering and being
oppressed than there is in any ten of their kings and prophets. They are
dead, I tell you. We are alive. It was their earth while they lived on
it. It's our earth to-day."

Jeff was edging nearer, skirting the high fence, and while he did it,
the warm voice of the other man took up the exposition, and now Jeff
understood that he was Moore's interpreter. By the time he had finished,
Jeff was at the thin edge of the crowd behind the car, and though one or
two men turned as he moved and glanced at him, he seemed to rouse no
uneasiness. Here, nearer them in the moonlight, he saw what they were:
workmen, foreign evidently, with bared throats and loosely worn hair,
some, their caps pushed back, others without hats at all, seeking, it
seemed, coolness in this too warm adjuration.

"Their symbol," said Moore, "is the flag. They carry it into foreign
lands. Why? For what they call r