So many statements had been made, and so many vicious insinuations hinted, Gordon was compelled to lay aside his sermon and devote the entire hour to a defense of his position. The crowd listened in breathless stillness, but he knew from the first he had lost their sympathies and that he was on trial. Unable to tell the whole truth, his address was as lame and ineffective as his outburst the Sunday before had been resistless. When he dismissed the crowd he noticed that some of his warmest friends were crying. As he came down from the pulpit, Ludlow took him by the hand and, with trembling voice, said: "Pastor, you know how I love you?" What he did not say was more eloquent than a thousand words, and it cut Gordon to his inmost soul. He knew his failure had been pathetic, and that his enemies were laughing over the certainty of his ruin. It angered him for a moment as he looked over the silent crowd filing out of his presence and out of his life. He cursed their stolid conservatism. "The average man does not aspire to liberty of thought," he mused with bitterness, "but slavery of thought. The mob must have its fixed formulas easy to read, requiring no thought. Well, let them go." Suddenly a confused murmur, with loud voices mingled, came through the doors of the vestibules. The exits were blocked, and the moving crowd halted and recoiled on itself as if hurled back by the charge of an opposing army, and a cheer echoed over their heads. The people inside, who had been halted, stretched their necks to see over the heads of those in front, crying: "What is it?" "What's the matter?" "It sounds like a riot," some one answered near doors. Gordon wedged himself through the mass that had been thrown back on the advancing stream and reached the doorway. He was astonished to find packed in the street more than five thousand men, evidently working-men and Socialists. They had been quick to recognise his position in the vigorous statement he had given to the press. When Gordon's giant figure appeared between the two opposing forces a wild cheer rent the air. A Socialist leaped on the steps beside him and, lifting his hat above his head, cried: "Now again, men, three times three for a dauntless leader, a free man in the image of God, who dares to think and speak the truth!" Three times the storm rolled over the sea of faces, and every hat was in the air. Gordon lifted his big hand and the tumult hushed. "My friends, I thank you for this mark of your fellowship. At the old Grand Opera House, next Sunday morning, the seats will be yours. You will get a comrade's welcome. I will have something to say to you that may be worth your while to hear." The crowd, who had never seen or heard him, were impressed by his magnificent presence and his trumpet voice. They liked its clear ringing tones and its consciousness of power. The unexpected demonstration restored his self-respect and blotted out the aching sense of failure.