The pressure upon him relaxed and he struggled up.  He saw Ostrog’s grey head receding and perceived that he was no longer held.  He turned about and came full into a man in black.  One of the green weapons cracked close to him, a drift of pungent smoke came into his face, and a steel blade flashed.  The huge chamber span about him.

He saw a man in pale blue stabbing one of the black and yellow attendants not three yards from his face.  Then hands were upon him again.

He was being pulled in two directions now.  It seemed as though people were shouting to him.  He wanted to understand and could not.  Someone was clutching about his thighs, he was being hoisted in spite of his vigorous efforts.  He understood suddenly, he ceased to struggle.  He was lifted up on men’s shoulders and carried away from that devouring panel.  Ten thousand throats were cheering.

He saw men in blue and black hurrying after the retreating Ostrogites and firing.  Lifted up, he saw now across the whole expanse of the hall beneath the Atlas image, saw that he was being carried towards the raised platform in the centre of the place.  The far end of the hall was already full of people running towards him.  They were looking at him and cheering.

He became aware that a bodyguard surrounded him.  Active men about him shouted vague orders.  He saw close at hand the black moustached man in yellow who had been among those who had greeted him in the public theatre, shouting directions.  The hall was already densely packed with swaying people, the little metal gallery sagged with a shouting load, the curtains at the end had been torn away, and the antechamber was revealed densely crowded.  He could scarcely make the man near him hear for the tumult about them.  “Where has Ostrog gone?” he asked.

The man he questioned pointed over the heads towards the lower panels about the hall on the side opposite the gap.  They stood open, and armed men, blue clad with black sashes, were running through them and vanishing into the chambers and passages beyond.  It seemed to Graham that a sound of firing drifted through the riot.  He was carried in a staggering curve across the great hall towards an opening beneath the gap.

He perceived men working with a sort of rude discipline to keep the crowd off him, to make a space clear about him.  He passed out of the hall, and saw a crude, new wall rising blankly before him topped by blue sky.  He was swung down to his feet; someone gripped his arm and guided him.  He found the man in yellow close at hand.  They were taking him up a narrow stairway of brick, and close at hand rose the great red painted masses, the cranes and levers and the still engines of the big building machine.

He was at the top of the steps.  He was hurried across a narrow railed footway, and suddenly with a vast shouting the amphitheatre of ruins opened again before him.  “The Master is with us!  The Master!  The Master!” The shout swept athwart the lake of faces like a wave, broke against the distant cliff of ruins, and came back in a welter of cries.  “The Master is on our side!”