“Perhaps our meeting next may fall,
At Tomworth in your castle hall.
Come along, friends, and form up. Don’t waste time destroying property. We’re all to start now.”
“Where are we all going to?” asked the plasterer.
“We’re all going into Parliament,” answered the Captain, as he went to the head of the crowd.
The marching crowd turned two or three corners, and at the end of the next long street, Dorian Wimpole, who was toward the tail of the procession, saw again the grey Cyclops tower of St. Stephens, with its one great golden eye, as he had seen it against that pale green sunset that was at once quiet and volcanic on the night he was betrayed by sleep and by a friend. Almost as far off, at the head of the procession, he could see the sign with the ship and the cross going before them like an ensign, and hear a great voice singing—
“Men that are men again, Who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
The voice valedictory—who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?”