For some minutes he was running through the darkness along a winding passage, and then he crossed some wide and open space, passed down a long incline, and came at last down a flight of steps to a level place.  Many people were shouting, “They are coming!  The guards are coming.  They are firing.  Get out of the fighting.  The guards are firing.  It will be safe in Seventh Way.  Along here to Seventh Way!” There were women and children in the crowd as well as men.

The crowd converged on an archway, passed through a short throat and emerged on a wider space again, lit dimly.  The black figures about him spread out and ran up what seemed in the twilight to be a gigantic series of steps.  He followed.  The people dispersed to the right and left....  He perceived that he was no longer in a crowd.  He stopped near the highest step.  Before him, on that level, were groups of seats and a little kiosk.  He went up to this and, stopping in the shadow of its eaves, looked about him panting.

Everything was vague and grey, but he recognised that these great steps were a series of platforms of the “ways,” now motionless again.  The platform slanted up on either side, and the tall buildings rose beyond, vast dim ghosts, their inscriptions and advertisements indistinctly seen, and up through the girders and cables was a faint interrupted ribbon of pallid sky.  A number of people hurried by.  From their shouts and voices, it seemed they were hurrying to join the fighting.  Other less noisy figures flitted timidly among the shadows.

From very far away down the street he could hear the sound of a struggle.  But it was evident to him that this was not the street into which the theatre opened.  That former fight, it seemed, had suddenly dropped out of sound and hearing.  And they were fighting for him!

For a space he was like a man who pauses in the reading of a vivid book, and suddenly doubts what he has been taking unquestionably.  At that time he had little mind for details; the whole effect was a huge astonishment.  Oddly enough, while the flight from the Council prison, the great crowd in the hall, and the attack of the red police upon the swarming people were clearly present in his mind, it cost him an effort to piece in his awakening and to revive the meditative interval of the Silent Rooms.  At first his memory leapt these things and took him back to the cascade at Pentargen quivering in the wind, and all the sombre splendours of the sunlit Cornish coast.  The contrast touched everything with unreality.  And then the gap filled, and he began to comprehend his position.

It was no longer absolutely a riddle, as it had been in the Silent Rooms.  At least he had the strange, bare outline now.  He was in some way the owner of the world, and great political parties were fighting to possess him.  On the one hand was the Council, with its red police, set resolutely, it seemed, on the usurpation of his property and perhaps his murder; on the other, the revolution that had liberated him, with this unseen “Ostrog” as its leader.  And the whole of this gigantic city was convulsed by their struggle.  Frantic development of his world!  “I do not understand,” he cried.  “I do not understand!”