"Roused you, have I?" roared Graeme; "want to fight now, do you? Very well then, you shall, George, my boy; we all will. And now stop muttering, all of you, and ... listen." Hector rose from the chair in which he had been lounging and stood erect, facing them; and, at something, something indefinable in the tone of the last word, a sudden silence fell. All eyes were fixed on the speaker, and as they looked amazement grew, for over the shabby, grotesque figure before them a startling change had come. In some strange way he seemed to have grown bigger, and to fill the tent to the exclusion of all else; even the gigantic Fellowes appeared to have become a pigmy like the others. Gone too was the demeanour of the buffoon, and in its place there was visible a dignity—almost a majesty—of bearing, unimpaired by the clown's trappings of top-hat and sheepskin coat.
In that instant, at the one simple word, all had changed, and in a flash the truth of the stories that they had heard was revealed—stories of the strange power emanating from this man, of the ascendency of his mind over those of his followers, stories at which they had so often scoffed, but at which, having felt his power themselves, they scoffed no longer.
Nor did their mood change even when he ran to the black-board, and uncovering the picture, proceeded to explain it in the jargon of the streets. The palpitating vibrating speech held them silent and thrilled, despite the words in which that speech was uttered.
"Yes, fight it is," he continued, "and, this time, win. I needn't tell you that, you know it as well as I do now. Want to know how, do you? See there then," and with outstretched hand he pointed to the board, on which the following was depicted:
In the foreground lay a prostrate figure, looked down upon by another, huge of stature and with bearskin on head. Over the pair were scrawled the words: "Uriel, deceased, 6 a.m., December 25th." Beyond him a third figure was to be seen sinking to the ground, under the blows of a man in a top-hat. The falling figure was labelled "Gabriel," and the man in the hat "Mad Jack." To the left was a tall thin man, with a long pole in his hand, with which weapon he was pushing away another man twice his size; the big man was labelled "Michael." Under the whole was written,
"One down, t'other come on.
"H. G., R.A."
"That's how," continued the artist, "there's the whole blasted scheme in a square yard, better than fifty pages of Staff College clap-trap. Ha! there's one who don't seem to tumble," looking at Lord Fellowes, whose face wore a look of deep perplexity, "never mind, Flamingo Head, your thinking-box may be thick, but your heart's right enough, and that's all I want from you, for it's you, my lord, that's going to lead the bloody cotillion. Hullo! there's another woolly brain. I'll have to hammer it in, I see. Listen then.
"That fellow in the front is Uriel, as you see, old Uriel, sitting on his hill yonder, rubbing his hands over what he gave us last night, and praying for Michael and Gabriel to hurry up and catch us before we're off to the briny sea. But to-night, when he and his men are dreaming of medals and golden crosses—perhaps drawing lots for my Piccadilly tile—old red-head there will be close by, waiting for the morning, and when the light breaks he creeps up, nearer, nearer; the bayonets flash, and then ... God help you, Uriel, and a merry Christmas to ye."
"Good," said Fellowes, a smile breaking over his face.