"This," thought Courtier, "is religion!"
They were singing even on the balconies; by the lamplight he could see
Lord Valleys mouth not opened quite enough, as though his voice were
just a little ashamed of coming out, and Barbara with her head flung
back against the pillar, pouring out her heart. No mouth in all the
crowd was silent. It was as though the soul of the English people were
escaping from its dungeon of reserve, on the pinions of that chant.
But suddenly, like a shot bird closing wings, the song fell silent and
dived headlong back to earth. Out from under the clock-face had moved a
thin dark figure. More figures came behind. Courtier could see Miltoun.
A voice far away cried: "Up; Chilcox!" A huge: "Husill" followed; then
such a silence, that the sound of an engine shunting a mile away could
be heard plainly.
The dark figure moved forward, and a tiny square of paper gleamed out
white against the black of his frock-coat.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Result of the Poll:
"Miltoun Four thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight. Chilcox Four
thousand eight hundred and two."
The silence seemed to fall to earth, and break into a thousand pieces.
Through the pandemonium of cheers and groaning, Courtier with all his
strength forced himself towards the balcony. He could see Lord Valleys
leaning forward with a broad smile; Lady Valleys passing her hand across
her eyes; Barbara with her hand in Harbinger's, looking straight into
his face.
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