They could see nothing for the swell of the beach; but they could hear.
And what they heard was the Voice of England marching shorewards to see her hero off.
A roaring flood of sound made the stillness tremble. It was stupendous.
The vanguard of the mob trickled over the bank with tossing arms and backward faces. Behind them a vast black tide of people brimmed, welled over, and rippled down towards the watchers; and aloft on their shoulders was a figure, dark against the light.
How small he looked, that battered little man, shorn of an arm, and one eye bashed; yet riding the flood, and ruling it!
His cocked hat was in his hand, his white hair bare to heaven.
He looked what he was—the man on whom the world's eyes were set, and aware of it.
It was an inspiration to behold him.
Kit was moved to dumb madness. His heart was all tears and triumph. He was a flood in flames. A glory was looking through his eyes. The veil of flesh was fading.
Nelson was far the calmest there. He was radiant indeed, but with the radiance of the moon, steering its way amid droves of clouds. That high pale look hid the blazing heart.