As with bowed head, lost in thought, he approached the city by one of the park entrances, he heard a deep, angry murmur, as if a storm-vexed tide was coming in.  Spurring his horse forward, he soon discovered, with a feeling like an electric shock, that a tide was indeed rising.  Was it a temporary tidal wave of human passion, mysterious in its origin, soon to subside, leaving such wreckage as its senseless fury might have caused?  Or was it the beginning of the revolution so long feared, but not now guarded against?

Converging from different avenues, men, women, and children were pouring by the thousand into a vacant lot near the park.  Their presence seemed like a dream.  Why was this angry multitude gathering here within a few rods of rural loveliness, their hoarse cries blending with the songs of robins and thrushes?  It had been expected that the red monster would raise its head, if at all, in some purlieu of the east side.  On the contrary its segregate parts were coming together at a distance from regions that would naturally generate them, and were forming under his very eyes the thing of which he had read, and, of late, had dreamed night and day,—­a mob.

To change the figure, the vacant space, unbuilt upon as yet, was becoming an immense human reservoir, into which turgid streams with threatening sounds were surging from the south.  His eyes could separate the tumultuous atoms into ragged forms, unkempt heads, inflamed faces, animated by some powerful destructive impulse.  Arms of every description proved that the purpose of the gathering was not a peaceful one.  But what was the purpose?

Riding closer he sought to question some on the outskirts of the throng, and so drew attention to himself.  Volleys of oaths, stones, and sticks, were the only answers he received.

“Thank you,” Merwyn muttered, as he galloped away.  “I begin to comprehend your meaning, but shall study you awhile before I take part in the controversy.  Then there shall be some knock-down arguments.”

As he drew rein at a short distance the cry went up that he was a “spy,” and another rush was made for him; but he speedily distanced his pursuers.  To his surprise the great multitude turned southward, pouring down Fifth and Sixth avenues.  After keeping ahead for a few blocks, he saw that the mob, now numbering many thousands, was coming down town with some unknown purpose and destination.

Two things were at least clear,—­the outbreak was unexpected, and no preparation had been made for it.  As he approached his home on a sharp trot, a vague air of apprehension and expectation was beginning to manifest itself, and but little more.  Policemen were on their beats, and the city on the fashionable avenues and cross-streets wore its midsummer aspect.  Before entering his own home he obeyed an impulse to gallop by the Vosburgh residence.  All was still quiet, and Marian, with surprise, saw him clattering past in a way that seemed reckless and undignified.