The Wanderer went to the monument of Brahe and sat down in the corner of the blackened pew.

His hands trembled a little as he clasped them upon his knee, and his head sank slowly towards his breast.
He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything that morning.

He could have used his strength to force a way for himself through the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the right and left, and he could have reached her side.

Perhaps he had been weak, indolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure.

But then, again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, the sea of faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendous power that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast gathering such as had been present.