"Nothing," said the thickset man impatiently.
"It's people. You'll understand better later -- perhaps.
As you say, things have changed." He spoke
shortly, his brows were knit, and he glanced about
him like a man trying to decide in an emergency.
"We must get you clothes and so forth, at any rate.

Better wait here until some can come. No one will
come near you. You want shaving."

Graham rubbed his chin.

The man with the flaxen beard came back towards
them, turned suddenly, listened for a moment, lifted
his eyebrows at the older man, and hurried off through
the archway towards the balcony. The tumult of
shouting grew louder, and the thickset man turned and
listened also. He cursed suddenly under his breath,
and turned his eyes upon Graham with an unfriendly
expression. It was a surge of many voices, rising and
falling, shouting and screaming, and once came a
sound like blows and sharp cries, and then a snapping
like the crackling of dry sticks. Graham
strained his ears to draw some single thread of sound
from the woven tumult.

Then he perceived, repeated again and again, a
certain formula. For a time he doubted his ears. But
surely these were the words: "Show us the Sleeper!