“But surely—­I can’t go ...”

Ostrog answered from the other side of the room, and the picture on the oval disc paled and vanished as the light jerked back again.  “There are kineto-telephoto-graphs,” he said.  “As you bow to the people here—­all over the world myriads of myriads of people, packed and still in darkened halls, will see you also.  In black and white, of course—­not like this.  And you will hear their shouts reinforcing the shouting in the hall.

“And there is an optical contrivance we shall use,” said Ostrog, “used by some of the posturers and women dancers.  It may be novel to you.  You stand in a very bright light, and they see not you but a magnified image of you thrown on a screen—­so that even the furtherest man in the remotest gallery can, if he chooses, count your eyelashes.”

Graham clutched desperately at one of the questions in his mind.  “What is the population of London?” he said.

“Eight and twaindy myriads.”

“Eight and what?”

“More than thirty-three millions.”

These figures went beyond Graham’s imagination.

“You will be expected to say something,” said Ostrog.  “Not what you used to call a Speech, but what our people call a word—­just one sentence, six or seven words.  Something formal.  If I might suggest—­’I have awakened and my heart is with you.’  That is the sort of thing they want.”

“What was that?” asked Graham.

“‘I am awakened and my heart is with you.’  And bow—­bow royally.  But first we must get you black robes—­for black is your colour.  Do you mind?  And then they will disperse to their homes.”

Graham hesitated.  “I am in your hands,” he said.

Ostrog was clearly of that opinion.  He thought for a moment, turned to the curtain and called brief directions to some unseen attendants.  Almost immediately a black robe, the very fellow of the black robe Graham had worn in the theatre, was brought.  And as he threw it about his shoulders there came from the room without the shrilling of a high-pitched bell.  Ostrog turned in interrogation to the attendant, then suddenly seemed to change his mind, pulled the curtain aside and disappeared.

For a moment Graham stood with the deferential attendant listening to Ostrog’s retreating steps.  There was a sound of quick question and answer and of men running.  The curtain was snatched back and Ostrog reappeared, his massive face glowing with excitement.  He crossed the room in a stride, clicked the room into darkness, gripped Graham’s arm and pointed to the mirror.

“Even as we turned away,” he said.

Graham saw his index finger, black and colossal, above the mirrored Council House.  For a moment he did not understand.  And then he perceived that the flagstaff that had carried the white banner was bare.

“Do you mean—?” he began.

“The Council has surrendered.  Its rule is at an end for evermore.”