Guided by Lincoln's hand he marched obliquely across the centre of the
stage facing the people.
The hall was a vast and intricate space--galleries, balconies, broad
spaces of amphitheatral steps, and great archways. Far away, high up,
seemed the mouth of a huge passage full of struggling humanity. The whole
multitude was swaying in congested masses. Individual figures sprang out
of the tumult, impressed him momentarily, and lost definition again.
Close to the platform swayed a beautiful fair woman, carried by three
men, her hair across her face and brandishing a green staff. Next this
group an old careworn man in blue canvas maintained his place in the
crush with difficulty, and behind shouted a hairless face, a great cavity
of toothless mouth. A voice called that enigmatical word "Ostrog." All
his impressions were vague save the massive emotion of that trampling
song. The multitude were beating time with their feet--marking time,
tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The green weapons waved, flashed and slanted.
Then he saw those nearest to him on a level space before the stage were
marching in front of him, passing towards a great archway, shouting "To
the Council!" Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. He raised his arm, and the
roaring was redoubled. He remembered he had to shout "March!" His mouth
shaped inaudible heroic words. He waved his arm again and pointed to the
archway, shouting "Onward!" They were no longer marking time, they were
marching; tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp.
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