Hitherto the revellers have had a clear sweep--an unobstructed
highway. They have gone on in power and glory, conquering where there
was no enemy, defying where there was no adversary.
But this all changes suddenly, and a great shout roars up from a
hundred mouths.
Another drum is heard; mutterings from the southern end of the town
respond.
The followers of the maligned and desecrated Michael are in battle
array--the Dutch are out to protect their saint, and meet the Irish
world in arms.
They come on in a tumultuous mass: they sway, they bend, they leap,
they shout. The other half of Pandemonium has turned out, and
surrounding ears are deafened by the demoniac chorus.
In costume they are not dissimilar to their enemies--in rotundity they
are superior, however, if not in brawn. Every other warrior holds his
pipe between his teeth, and all brandish nondescript weapons, like
their enemies, the Irish.
And as the great crowd draws near, the crowning peculiarity of the
pageant is revealed to wondering eyes.
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