She sank to her seat before the crowd realized that she had stopped. A shout of triumph shook the building--wave after wave, rising and falling in ever-increasing intensity. At its height the Scarlet Nun sprang to her feet, with a graceful leap reached the edge of the platform, and again lifted her hand. A sudden hush fell on the crowd. "Now, comrades, the battle-hymn of the Republic set to new music! Mark its words, and remember that we sing it not as a mem-ory, but as a proph-esy of the day our streets may run red with the blood of the last struggle of Man to break his chains of Slav-ery--a proph-esy, remember, not a mem-ory! Read it Barbara!" The girl was by her side in an instant, and read from memory, her clear sweet voice tremulous with passion: "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on! I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening's dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on! He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer them, be jubilant my feet! Our God is marching on!" The crowd burst again into triumphant song, and Norman looked at their faces with increasing amazement. The immense vitality of their faith, the rush of its forward movement, the grandeur and audacity of their programme struck him as a revelation. They proposed no half-way measures. They meant to uproot the foundations of modern society and build a new world on its ruins. Their leaders were fanatics--yes. But fanatics were the only kind of people who would dare such things and do them. Here was a movement, which at least meant something--something big, heroic, daring. His face suddenly flushed and his heart leaped with an impulse. "In heaven's name, Norman, what's the matter?" Elena asked. The young poet-athlete looked at her in a dazed sort of way and stammered: "Did you ever see anything like it?" "No, and I don't want to again," she replied with a frown. "Let's go home." "Wait, they are taking up a collection. At least we must pay for our seats." When the usher passed he emptied the contents of his pocket in the collection-box. As the meeting broke up, the boy who placed their seats touched Norman on the arm. "Let me introduce ye to her. I wants ter tell 'er ye er my friend--I've yelled my head off for ye many a day on de football ground. Jest er minute. I'll fetch 'er right down." The boy darted up on the platform, and Norman turned to Elena: "Shall we please the boy?" "You mean yourself," she replied. "I decline the honour." She turned away into the crowd as the boy returned leading Barbara.