The man had gone back to a seat upon the platform, and Jurgis realized that his speech was over.  The applause continued for several minutes; and then some one started a song, and the crowd took it up, and the place shook with it.  Jurgis had never heard it, and he could not make out the words, but the wild and wonderful spirit of it seized upon him—­it was the “Marseillaise!” As stanza after stanza of it thundered forth, he sat with his hands clasped, trembling in every nerve.  He had never been so stirred in his life—­it was a miracle that had been wrought in him.  He could not think at all, he was stunned; yet he knew that in the mighty upheaval that had taken place in his soul, a new man had been born.  He had been torn out of the jaws of destruction, he had been delivered from the thraldom of despair; the whole world had been changed for him—­he was free, he was free!  Even if he were to suffer as he had before, even if he were to beg and starve, nothing would be the same to him; he would understand it, and bear it.  He would no longer be the sport of circumstances, he would be a man, with a will and a purpose; he would have something to fight for, something to die for, if need be!  Here were men who would show him and help him; and he would have friends and allies, he would dwell in the sight of justice, and walk arm in arm with power.

The audience subsided again, and Jurgis sat back.  The chairman of the meeting came forward and began to speak.  His voice sounded thin and futile after the other’s, and to Jurgis it seemed a profanation.  Why should any one else speak, after that miraculous man—­why should they not all sit in silence?  The chairman was explaining that a collection would now be taken up to defray the expenses of the meeting, and for the benefit of the campaign fund of the party.  Jurgis heard; but he had not a penny to give, and so his thoughts went elsewhere again.

He kept his eyes fixed on the orator, who sat in an armchair, his head leaning on his hand and his attitude indicating exhaustion.  But suddenly he stood up again, and Jurgis heard the chairman of the meeting saying that the speaker would now answer any questions which the audience might care to put to him.  The man came forward, and some one—­a woman—­arose and asked about some opinion the speaker had expressed concerning Tolstoy.  Jurgis had never heard of Tolstoy, and did not care anything about him.  Why should any one want to ask such questions, after an address like that?  The thing was not to talk, but to do; the thing was to get bold of others and rouse them, to organize them and prepare for the fight!  But still the discussion went on, in ordinary conversational tones, and it brought Jurgis back to the everyday world.  A few minutes ago he had felt like seizing the hand of the beautiful lady by his side, and kissing it; he had felt like flinging his arms about the neck of the man on the other side of him.  And now he began to realize again that he was a “hobo,” that he was ragged and dirty, and smelled bad, and had no place to sleep that night!