But it was not until 1.0 p.m.

that there began to flow, always towards the Pageant Ground, a stream by which that week, among the inhabitants of Merchester, will always be best remembered; a stream of folk in strange dresses--knights in armour, ladies in flounces and ruffs, ancient Britons, greaved Roman legionaries, monks, cavaliers, Georgian beaux and dames.
It appeared as if all the dead generations of Merchester had arisen from their tombs and reclaimed possession of her streets.
They shared it, however, with throngs of modern folk, in summer attire, hurrying from early luncheons to the spectacle.
In the roadway near the Pageant Ground crusaders and nuns jostled amid motors and cabs of commerce.
For an hour this mad medley poured through the streets of Merchester.
Come with them to the Pageant Ground, where all is arranged now and ready, waiting the signal! Punctually at half-past two, from his box on the roof of the Grand Stand, Mr.Isidore gave the signal for which the orchestra waited.
With a loud outburst of horns and trumpets and a deep rolling of drums the overture began.
It was the work of a young musician, ambitious to seize his opportunity.

After stating its theme largely, simply, in sixteen strong chords, it broke into variations in which the audience for a few moments might read nothing but cacophonous noise, until a gateway opened in the old wall, and through it a band of white-robed Druids came streaming towards the stone altar which stood--the sole stage "property"-- in the centre of the green area.

Behind them trooped a mob of skin-clothed savages, yelling as they dragged a woman to the sacrifice.

It was these yells that the music interpreted.
The Pageant had opened, and was chanting in high wild notes to its own prelude.
Almost before the spectators realised this, the Arch-Druid had mounted his altar.