Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp; at Lincoln’s pressure he turned towards the archway, walking unconsciously in that rhythm, scarcely noticing his movement for the melody and stir of it.  The multitude, the gesture and song, all moved in that direction, the flow of people smote downward until the upturned faces were below the level of his feet.  He was aware of a path before him, of a suite about him, of guards and dignities, and Lincoln on his right hand.  Attendants intervened, and ever and again blotted out the sight of the multitude to the left.  Before him went the backs of the guards in black—­three and three and three.  He was marched along a little railed way, and crossed above the archway, with the torrent dipping to flow beneath, and shouting up to him.  He did not know whither he went; he did not want to know.  He glanced back across a flaming spaciousness of hall.  Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp.

CHAPTER X

THE BATTLE OF THE DARKNESS

He was no longer in the hall.  He was marching along a gallery overhanging one of the great streets of the moving platforms that traversed the city.  Before him and behind him tramped his guards.  The whole concave of the moving ways below was a congested mass of people marching, tramping to the left, shouting, waving hands and arms, pouring along a huge vista, shouting as they came into view, shouting as they passed, shouting as they receded, until the globes of electric light receding in perspective dropped down it seemed and hid the swarming bare heads.  Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp.

The song roared up to Graham now, no longer upborne by music, but coarse and noisy, and the beating of the marching feet, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, interwove with a thunderous irregularity of footsteps from the undisciplined rabble that poured along the higher ways.

Abruptly he noted a contrast.  The buildings on the opposite side of the way seemed deserted, the cables and bridges that laced across the aisle were empty and shadowy.  It came into Graham’s mind that these also should have swarmed with people.

He felt a curious emotion—­throbbing—­very fast!  He stopped again.  The guards before him marched on; those about him stopped as he did.  He saw anxiety and fear in their faces.  The throbbing had something to do with the lights.  He too looked up.

At first it seemed to him a thing that affected the lights simply, an isolated phenomenon, having no bearing on the things below.  Each huge globe of blinding whiteness was as it were clutched, compressed in a systole that was followed by a transitory diastole, and again a systole like a tightening grip, darkness, light, darkness, in rapid alternation.