Oh beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain. America! America!God shed his Grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea.
All this time, Altgeld was standing behind the doors, Emmanext to him, Brand Whitlock on the other side, and through a space inthe curtains he watched them come up and onto the lawn. It was thefirst time he had ever heard the song played and sung by so manyyoung voices, and it moved him curiously. He watched the faces inthe flickering torchlight, thinking all the while of the hours he hadspent with Bathhouse John, planning this, of how fixed and preciseand manipulated every detail of it Was, from the first beginnings tothis to wherever it would take them—then meeting Emma’s eyes, andknowing almost as well as she what was behind them, what thoughts,what fears, what endless, inescapable confusion.Then he felt the pressure of young Whitlock’s hand and realizedthat out there they were chanting his name and calling for him. Hecouldn’t go; he was rooted where he stood, and he felt that no force onearth could impel him out there onto the veranda. He looked at Emmawith real terror in his eyes. Whitlock was urging him: