The high galleries were festooned with the red, white and blue of the Women’s Franchise Union, and hung with flags and blazoned banners.  The silk standards and the emblems of the Women’s Suffrage Leagues and Societies, supported by their tall poles, stood ranged along three walls.  They covered the sham porphyry with gorgeous and heroic colours, purple and blue, sky-blue and sapphire blue and royal blue, black, white and gold, vivid green, pure gold, pure white, dead-black, orange and scarlet and magenta.

From the high table under the windows streamed seven dependent tables decorated with nosegays of red, white and blue flowers.  In the centre of the high table three arm-chairs, draped with the tricolour, were set like three thrones for the three leaders.  They were flanked by nine other chairs on the right and nine on the left for the eighteen other prisoners.

There was a slight rustling sound at the side door leading to the high table.  It was followed by a thicker and more prolonged sound of rustling as the three hundred and fifty turned in their places.

The twenty-one prisoners came in.

A great surge of white, spotted with red and blue, heaved itself up in the hall to meet them as the three hundred and fifty rose to their feet.

And from the three hundred and fifty there went up a strange, a savage and a piercing collective sound, where a clear tinkling as of glass or thin metal, and a tearing as of silk, and a crying as of children and of small, slender-throated animals were held together by ringing, vibrating, overtopping tones as of violins playing in the treble.  And now a woman’s voice started off on its own note and tore the delicate tissue of this sound with a solitary scream; and now a man’s voice filled up a pause in the shrill hurrahing with a solitary boom.

To Dorothea, in her triumphal seat at Angela Blathwaite’s right hand, to Michael and Nicholas and Veronica in their places among the crowd, that collective sound was frightful.

From her high place Dorothea could see Michael and Nicholas, one on each side of Veronica, just below her.  At the same table, facing them, she saw her three aunts, Louie, Emmeline and Edith.

It was from Emmeline that those lacerating screams arose.

* * * * *

The breakfast and the speeches of the prisoners were over.  The crowd was on its feet again, and the prisoners had risen in their high places.

Out of the three hundred and seventy-one, two hundred and seventy-nine women and seven men were singing the Marching Song of the Militant Women.

Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast,
Our army moves from east to west. 
Follow on!  Follow on!

With flag and sword from south and north,
The sounding, shining hosts go forth. 
Follow on!  Follow on!

Do you not bear our marching feet,
From door to door, from street to street? 
Follow on!  Follow on!