He stood unsteadily and looked at those about him.  Someone supported him by one arm.  “Let me go into a little room,” he said, weeping; “a little room,” and could say no more.  A man in black stepped forward, took his disengaged arm.  He was aware of officious men opening a door before him.  Someone guided him to a seat.  He staggered.  He sat down heavily and covered his face with his hands; he was trembling violently, his nervous control was at an end.  He was relieved of his cloak, he could not remember how; his purple hose he saw were black with wet.  People were running about him, things were happening, but for some time he gave no heed to them.

He had escaped.  A myriad of cries told him that.  He was safe.  These were the people who were on his side.  For a space he sobbed for breath, and then he sat still with his face covered.  The air was full of the shouting of innumerable men.

CHAPTER IX

THE PEOPLE MARCH

He became aware of someone urging a glass of clear fluid upon his attention, looked up and discovered this was a dark young man in a yellow garment.  He took the dose forthwith, and in a moment he was glowing.  A tall man in a black robe stood by his shoulder, and pointed to the half open door into the hall.  This man was shouting close to his ear and yet what was said was indistinct because of the tremendous uproar from the great theatre.  Behind the man was a girl in a silvery grey robe, whom Graham, even in this confusion, perceived to be beautiful.  Her dark eyes, full of wonder and curiosity, were fixed on him, her lips trembled apart.  A partially opened door gave a glimpse of the crowded hall, and admitted a vast uneven tumult, a hammering, clapping and shouting that died away and began again, and rose to a thunderous pitch, and so continued intermittently all the time that Graham remained in the little room.  He watched the lips of the man in black and gathered that he was making some explanation.

He stared stupidly for some moments at these things and then stood up abruptly; he grasped the arm of this shouting person.

“Tell me!” he cried.  “Who am I?  Who am I?”

The others came nearer to hear his words.  “Who am I?” His eyes searched their faces.

“They have told him nothing!” cried the girl.

“Tell me, tell me!” cried Graham.

“You are the Master of the Earth.  You are owner of the world.”

He did not believe he heard aright.  He resisted the persuasion.  He pretended not to understand, not to hear.  He lifted his voice again.  “I have been awake three days—­a prisoner three days.  I judge there is some struggle between a number of people in this city—­it is London?”

“Yes,” said the younger man.

“And those who meet in the great hall with the white Atlas?  How does it concern me?  In some way it has to do with me. Why, I don’t know.  Drugs?  It seems to me that while I have slept the world has gone mad.  I have gone mad....  Who are those Councillors under the Atlas?  Why should they try to drug me?”