Outside the west front of St. Paul’s the figure of a man
appears, not directly in front of the pillars of the portico but a
little to one side, against the wall of one of the towers. He is at
least ten feet tall, and the impression of height is exaggerated
by the fact that his feet are not touching the ground. They are
clad in silvery metal, and the rest of him, too, is armoured, with
hinged plates over the knees and hips, a vast ridged breastplate,
more articulations at the shoulders and elbows, a helmet with
the visor raised. The armour is silver with brass or gold buckles;
in places it seems to be rusting slightly. He wears a long sword
in a scabbard at his hip. He has a white beard, and a stern,
wrinkled face, and stares slightly downwards. The overall
impression is of a wispy paleness, and things are visible through
his body: a window behind his head, the stones of the wall
through his chest. For a long time he does not move, and then,
abruptly, he raises his right arm. He turns his head with equal
suddenness, and makes a beckoning gesture, as if wanting the
assembled populace to come inside. This is too much for many
of them: they scream and run, crashing into the people behind,
stumbling on paving stones and the kerb of the road at Ludgate
Hill, falling and being trampled on.

     In Trafalgar Square in front of the National Gallery, another figure shimmers, not touching the ground, in front of the solid
wall at the side rather than the pillars in the centre. This time it
is an old woman, the eyes hollow, and with a gaping red wound
in her chest. A brazier of red fire is burning on the gallery steps,
causing people to cough. The woman lifts her hands; her mouth
opens and closes and blood is seen running from her wound.