cking--They cannot trust even their
drilled men--"

"Hear the people calling to you!"

Graham's mind was like a night of moon and swift clouds, now dark and
hopeless, now clear and ghastly. He was Master of the Earth, he was a
man sodden with thawing snow. Of all his fluctuating impressions the
dominant ones presented an antagonism; on the one hand was the White
Council, powerful, disciplined, few, the White Council from which he
had just escaped; and on the other, monstrous crowds, packed masses of
indistinguishable people clamouring his name, hailing him Master.
The other side had imprisoned him, debated his death. These shouting
thousands beyond the little doorway had rescued him. But why these
things should be so he could not understand.

The door opened, Lincoln's voice was swept away and drowned, and a rush
of people followed on the heels of the tumult. These intruders came
towards him and Lincoln gesticulating. The voices without explained
their soundless lips. "Show us the Sleeper, show us the Sleeper!" was
the burden of the uproar Men were bawling for "Order! Silence!"

Graham glanced towards the open doorway, and saw a tall, oblong picture
of the hall beyond, a waving, incessant confusion of crowded, shouting
faces, men and women together, waving pale blue garments, extended
hands. Many were standing, one man in rags of dark brown, a gaunt
figure, stood on the seat and waved a black cloth. He met the wonder and
expectation of the girl's eyes. What did these people expect from him.
He was dimly aware that the tumult outside had changed its character,
was in some way beating, marching. His own mind, too, changed for a
space he did not recognise the influence that was transforming him.
But a moment that was near to panic passed. He tried to make audible
inquiries of what was required of him.

Lincoln was shouting in his ear, but Graham was deafened to that. All
the others save the woman gesticulated towards the hall. He perceived
what had happened to the uproar. The whole mass of people was chanting
together. It was not simply a song, the voices were gathered together
and upborne by a torrent of instrumental music, music like the music of
an organ, a woven texture of sounds, full of trumpets, full of flaunting
banners, full of the march and pageantry of opening war. And the feet of
the people were beating time--tramp, tramp.

He was urged towards the door. He obeyed mechanically. The strength
of that chant