"The world is on your shoulders.

They rule it in your name." The sounds from the hall had died into a silence threaded by one monotonous voice.

Now suddenly, trampling on these last words, came a deafening tumult, a roaring and thundering, cheer crowded on cheer, voices hoarse and shrill, beating, overlapping, and while it lasted the people in the little room could not hear each other shout.
Graham stood, his intelligence clinging helplessly to the thing he had just heard.

"The Council," he repeated blankly, and then snatched at a name that had struck him.

"But who is Ostrog ?" he said.
"He is the organiser--the organiser of the revolt.