The door opened, Lincoln’s voice was swept away and drowned, and a rash 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 took hold of him, stirred him, emboldened him.  The hall opened to him, a vast welter of fluttering colour swaying to the music.

“Wave your arm to them,” said Lincoln.  “Wave your arm to them.”

“This,” said a voice on the other side, “he must have this.”  Arms were about his neck detaining him in the doorway, and a black subtly-folding mantle hung from his shoulders.  He threw his arm free of this and followed Lincoln.  He perceived the girl in grey close to him, her face lit, her gesture onward.  For the instant she became to him, flushed and eager as she was, an embodiment of the song.  He emerged in the alcove again.  Incontinently the mounting waves of the song broke upon his appearing, and flashed up into a foam of shouting.  Guided by Lincoln’s hand he marched obliquely across the centre of the stage facing the people.