It was the third morning that I heard the trumpet call.
A trumpet call sounded from somewhere within; from some concealed entrance in the stage in front of him, a solitary figure made its way stealthily into the glare of directed lights.
If this is true, we cannot continue to imagine there exists a slumbering progressive majority waiting to be awakened with the right trumpet call.
The trumpet call has become the signal for the raising of the dead.
Suddenly they heard trumpet calls coming from the walls of the camp.