“Yes, yes, yes!” There was a sudden burst of shouting and clapping. “Krakatit! Krakatit!”
“Silence!” shouted Daimon. “And his words,” he continued, “have all the more weight because they are supported by the actual power of bringing about this explosion. Comrade Krakatit is not a man of words, but of deeds. He has come here to convert us to direct action. And I tell you that it will be more terrible than anyone has dared to dream. And the explosion will take place to-day, tomorrow, within a week: His words were drowned in an indescribable confusion. A wave of people poured from the seats and surrounded Prokop. They embraced him, seized his hands and cried: “Krakatit! Krakatit!” The beautiful girl struggled wildly, her hair loose, trying to make a way for herself through the crowd of people. Thrown forward by the pressure from behind, she pressed herself against his breast. He tried to push her away, but she put her arms round him and passionately whispered something in a foreign language. Meanwhile, on the edge of the platform, a man wearing spectacles was slowly and quietly demonstrating to the empty benches that theoretically it was not permissible to deduce sociological conclusions from inorganic matter. “Krakatit. Krakatit,” roared the crowd. No one would sit down although Mazaud was ringing his bell all the time like a dustman. Suddenly a dark young man sprang on to the platform and waved the box of Krakatit above their heads.
“Silence,” he roared, “and down with you! Or I will throw it under your feet!”
