[Loyalists are singled out, perhaps, and stoned and jostled from the scene. Cheers become snarls. The multitude separates into small units, thirteen of them. These seem to wrangle among themselves, then, like so many socks, to turn inside out so that each menaces the other. The light over the multitude is murky. The music subsides to a low, ominous sound.
All this time Washington has stood imperturbably upon the stair, looking grimly down with the eloquence and understanding of a great fatalism. Freedom, however, is amazed. She wrings her hands in despair. She cries out in anguish.]
Freedom
Sowing salvation, do I reap
Havoc for harvest?
The Chronicler
Upon the human tempest descends, once more, the calm of leadership. A marvelous boy emerges. The word is Hamilton’s.
Freedom
Ah!
[She watches anxiously as Hamilton steps out of the gloom and comes up into the light about herself and Washington. Hope revives in her. She reaches her arms out toward him. Light shines upon the Spokesmen.]
Hamilton