On Monday and Tuesday the afternoon and evening services at the Albert Hall were repeated. Thousands of people were unable to obtain admission upon each occasion. Some of these people were addressed by friends of John Crondall's and _The Citizens_, within the precincts of the hall. On Tuesday morning, sunrise found a great throng of people waiting to secure places when the hall should open. On both days members of the Royal Family were present, and on Tuesday the Primate of England presided over the service addressed by Stairs. During all this time, John Crondall was working night and day, and I was busy with him in organizing the recruiting campaign of _The Citizens_. The Legion of Frontiersmen, and the members of some scores of rifle clubs, had been enrolled _en bloc_ as members, and applications were pouring in upon us by every post from men who had seen service in different parts of the world, and from men able to equip themselves either as mounted or foot riflemen. On Tuesday evening the Canadian preachers announced that their next day services would be held at the People's Palace, in the East End. But I fancy that, among the packed thousands who attended _The Citizens'_ first public meeting at the Albert Hall on Wednesday afternoon, many came under the impression that they were to hear the Canadian preachers. The man of all others in England most fitted for the office, presided over that first meeting, in full review uniform, and wearing the sword which had been returned to him by General Baron von Fuechter, after the historic surrender at the Mansion House on Black Saturday. The great little Field Marshal rose at three o'clock and stood for full five minutes, waiting for the tempest of cheering which greeted him to subside, before he could introduce John Crondall to that huge audience. Even when the Field Marshal began to speak he could not obtain complete silence. As one burst of cheering rumbled to its close, another would rise from the hall's far side like approaching thunder, swelling as it came. It seemed the London public was trying to make up to its erstwhile hero for its long neglect of his brave endeavours to warn them against the evils which had actually befallen. At last, not to waste more time, the little Field Marshal drew his sword, and waved it above his head till a penetrant ray of afternoon sunlight caught and transformed the blade into a streak of living flame. "There is a stain on it!" he shouted, shaking the blade. "It belongs to you--to England--and there's a stain on it; got on Black Saturday. Now silence, for the man who's for wiping out all stains. Silence!"