A third glare came close on its predecessors.  With it came a great shouting across the ways, an answering tumult from the ways.  The red-coats below, he saw, had now almost gained the central passage.  Their countless faces turned towards him, and they shouted.  The white facade opposite was densely stippled with red.  All these wonderful things concerned him, turned upon him as a pivot.  These were the guards of the Council attempting to recapture him.

Lucky it was for him that these shots were the first fired in anger for a hundred and fifty years.  He heard bullets whacking over his head, felt a splash of molten metal sting his ear, and perceived without looking that the whole opposite facade, an unmasked ambuscade of red police, was crowded and bawling and firing at him.

Down went one of his guards before him, and Graham, unable to stop, leapt the writhing body.

In another second he had plunged, unhurt, into a black passage, and incontinently someone, coming, it may be, in a transverse direction, blundered violently into him.  He was hurling down a staircase in absolute darkness.  He reeled, and was struck again, and came against a wall with his hands.  He was crushed by a weight of struggling bodies, whirled round, and thrust to the right.  A vast pressure pinned him.  He could not breathe, his ribs seemed cracking.  He felt a momentary relaxation, and then the whole mass of people moving together, bore him back towards the great theatre from which he had so recently come.  There were moments when his feet did not touch the ground.  Then he was staggering and shoving.  He heard shouts of “They are coming!” and a muffled cry close to him.  His foot blundered against something soft, he heard a hoarse scream under foot.  He heard shouts of “The Sleeper!” but he was too confused to speak.  He heard the green weapons crackling.  For a space he lost his individual will, became an atom in a panic, blind, unthinking, mechanical.  He thrust and pressed back and writhed in the pressure, kicked presently against a step, and found himself ascending a slope.  And abruptly the faces all about him leapt out of the black, visible, ghastly-white and astonished, terrified, perspiring, in a livid glare.  One face, a young man’s, was very near to him, not twenty inches away.  At the time it was but a passing incident of no emotional value, but afterwards it came back to him in his dreams.  For this young man, wedged upright in the crowd for a time, had been shot and was already dead.

A fourth white star must have been lit by the man on the cable.  Its light came glaring in through vast windows and arches and showed Graham that he was now one of a dense mass of flying black figures pressed back across the lower area of the great theatre.  This time the picture was livid and fragmentary, slashed and barred with black shadows.  He saw that quite near to him the red guards were fighting their way through the people.  He could not tell whether