She was soon pushed aside hard against a fence, and the close-packed crowd went streaming past her.

She saw that there were many people, and she was pleased.
"Rise up, awake, you workingmen!" It seemed as if the blare of a mighty brass trumpet were rousing men and stirring in some hearts the willingness to fight, in other hearts a vague joy, a premonition of something new, and a burning curiosity; in still others a confused tremor of hope and curiosity.

The song was an outlet, too, for the stinging bitterness accumulated during years.
The people looked ahead, where the red banner was swinging and streaming in the air.

All were saying something and shouting; but the individual voice was lost in the song--the new song, in which the old note of mournful meditation was absent.

It was not the utterance of a soul wandering in solitude along the dark paths of melancholy perplexity, of a soul beaten down by want, burdened with fear, deprived of individuality, and colorless.