The girl was by her side in an instant, and read from memory, her clear sweet voice tremulous with passion:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on!
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
[28] They have builded Him an altar in the evening's dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on!
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer them, be jubilant my feet!
Our God is marching on!"
The crowd burst again into triumphant song, and Norman looked at their faces with increasing amazement. The immense vitality of their faith, the rush of its forward movement, the grandeur and audacity of their programme struck him as a revelation. They proposed no half-way measures. They meant to uproot the foundations of modern society and build a new world on its ruins. Their leaders were fanatics—yes. But fanatics were the only kind of people who would dare such things and do them. Here was a movement, which at least meant something—something big, heroic, daring. His face suddenly flushed and his heart leaped with an impulse.
"In heaven's name, Norman, what's the matter?" Elena asked.
The young poet-athlete looked at her in a dazed sort of way and stammered:
"Did you ever see anything like it?"
"No, and I don't want to again," she replied with a frown. "Let's go home."
"Wait, they are taking up a collection. At least we must pay for our seats."