THE BATTLE OF THE DARKNESS He was no longer in the hall.

He was marching along a gallery overhanging one of the great streets of the moving platforms that traversed the city.
Before him and behind him tramped his guards.

The whole concave of the moving ways below was a congested mass of people marching, tramping to the left, shouting, waving hands and arms, pouring along a huge vista, shouting as they came into view, shouting as they passed, shouting as they receded, until the globes of electric light receding in perspective dropped down it seemed and hid the swarming bare heads.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp.
The song roared up to Graham now, no longer upborne by music, but coarse and noisy, and the beating of the marching feet, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, interwove with a thunderous irregularity of footsteps from the undisciplined rabble that poured along the higher ways.
Abruptly he noted a contrast.

The buildings on the opposite side of the way seemed deserted, the cables and bridges that laced across the aisle were empty and shadowy.