Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle.
He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere.

That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who in all those unclean streets were all clinging to the decencies and the charities of Christendom.

His youthful prank of being a policeman had faded from his mind; he did not think of himself as the representative of the corps of gentlemen turned into fancy constables, or of the old eccentric who lived in the dark room.

But he did feel himself as the ambassador of all these common and kindly people in the street, who every day marched into battle to the music of the barrel-organ.

And this high pride in being human had lifted him unaccountably to an infinite height above the monstrous men around him.