“To keep you insensible,” said the man in yellow.  “To prevent your interference.”

“But why?”

“Because you are the Atlas, Sire,” said the man in yellow.  “The world is on your shoulders.  They rule it in your name.”

The sounds from the hall had died into a silence threaded by one monotonous voice.  Now suddenly, trampling on these last words, came a deafening tumult, a roaring and thundering, cheer crowded on cheer, voices hoarse and shrill, beating, overlapping, and while it lasted the people in the little room could not hear each other shout.

Graham stood, his intelligence clinging helplessly to the thing he had just heard.  “The Council,” he repeated blankly, and then snatched at a name that had struck him.  “But who is Ostrog?” he said.

“He is the organiser—­the organiser of the revolt.  Our Leader—­in your name.”

“In my name?—­And you?  Why is he not here?”

“He—­has deputed us.  I am his brother—­his half-brother, Lincoln.  He wants you to show yourself to these people and then come on to him.  That is why he has sent.  He is at the wind-vane offices directing.  The people are marching.”

“In your name,” shouted the younger man.  “They have ruled, crushed, tyrannised.  At last even—­”

“In my name!  My name!  Master?”

The younger man suddenly became audible in a pause of the outer thunder, indignant and vociferous, a high penetrating voice under his red aquiline nose and bushy moustache.  “No one expected you to wake.  No one expected you to wake.  They were cunning.  Damned tyrants!  But they were taken by surprise.  They did not know whether to drug you, hypnotise you, kill you.”

Again the hall dominated everything.

“Ostrog is at the wind-vane offices ready—.  Even now there is a rumour of fighting beginning.”

The man who had called himself Lincoln came close to him.  “Ostrog has it planned.  Trust him.  We have our organisations ready.  We shall seize the flying stages—.  Even now he may be doing that.  Then—­”

“This public theatre,” bawled the man in yellow, “is only a contingent.  We have five myriads of drilled men—­”

“We have arms,” cried Lincoln.  “We have plans.  A leader.  Their police have gone from the streets and are massed in the—­” (inaudible).  “It is now or never.  The Council is rocking—­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.