"
To this strange outburst, Courtier at first made no reply.
"You've been working too hard," he said at last, "you're off your
balance. After all, the mob's made up of men like you and me."
"No, Courtier, the mob is not made up of men like you and me. If it were
it would not be the mob."
"It looks," Courtier answered gravely, "as if you had no business in
this galley. I've always steered clear of it myself."
"You follow your feelings. I have not that happiness."
So saying, Miltoun turned to the door.
Courtier's voice pursued him earnestly.
"Drop your politics--if you feel like this about them; don't waste your
life following whatever it is you follow; don't waste hers!"
But Miltoun did not answer.
It was a wondrous still night, when, a few minutes before twelve, with
his forehead bandaged under his hat, the champion of lost causes
left the hotel and made his way towards the Grammar School for the
declaration of the poll. A sound as of some monster breathing guided
him, till, from a steep empty street he came in sight of a surging
crowd, spread over the town square, like a dark carpet patterned by
splashes of lamplight. High up above that crowd, on the little peaked
tower of the Grammar School, a brightly lighted clock face presided; and
over the passionate hopes in those thousands of hearts knit together by
suspense the sky had lifted; and showed no cloud between them and the
purple fields of air.
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