Looking back, it could never have been any other way. Belfast's Waterfront Hall with its state-of-the-art architecture, terrace cafes and minimalist Christmas decor is not the sort of place for saying No.
"The leadership held it here deliberately," complained a Maghera farmer, George Shiels, as he entered the Ulster Unionist Council meeting. "We couldn't have escaped the ghosts of Carson and Craigavon in the Ulster Hall. They hope we will forget our past in a place like this."
The Rev Willie McCrea, the DUP songster, was playing in the Ulster Hall that night, and his party colleague, Gregory Campbell, thought it just as well the UUC wasn't meeting there. "The Ulster Hall couldn't handle two sell-outs in one day," he said.
So the country farmers and small businessmen, the housewives and pensioners who make up the UUC arrived at the Waterfront in their Sunday best. If they were to make history, they would make it quietly.
There were some exceptions. Waving her walking stick in the air, full of Churchillian spirit, an anti-agreement delegate, Jean Coulter, shouted: "One way or the other, this will be our finest hour!"
A posse of Young Unionists arrived, all sharp suits and aftershave, to read out a statement against the deal. John Taylor was the man of the moment for giving his last-minute support to David Trimble.
"Could you please explain this deal to German television?" asked a Berlin reporter. "It's difficult enough to explain it to Northern Ireland television," said Mr Taylor.
The UUP deputy leader attracted the ire of the No camp. "Where is your barge pole now, John? Did Gerry Adams take it off you?" a man shouted.
Mr Trimble was surrounded by security staff. "He needs all those bodyguards because he has strayed from the truth," said a delegate. "I didn't have so many men with me in Normandy," quipped the old soldier, Lord Molyneaux.
Like rival sets of carol-singers determined to outperform each other, pro- and anti-agreement campaigners gathered at opposite ends of the barricades outside the Waterfront.
The women peace campaigners carried candles and white balloons. The No activists waved plastic Union flags and gospel tracts. They wore "No Surrender" scarves to protect them from the icy cold.
David Trimble, he's our man,
If he can't do it no one can,
sang the women.
David Trimble, he's not our man
He's about to sell our land,
the loyalists retorted.
Each side tried to sing louder than the other. "We are on our way to peacetime, we shall not be moved!" the women yelled. "You will bloody move if we come down to you!" an anti-agreement man shouted.
He pointed to a bronze sculpture of a shepherd and his flock outside the Waterfront. "This place used to be a slaughterhouse and the sheep came here singing just like you."
For three hours, the UUC debated the Mitchell deal. It was a doorman who broke the word to the media. David Trimble had triumphed by 480 votes to 349. The UUP leader looked relieved as he appeared at a brief press conference, his wife, Daphne, by his side.
Outside, they were baying for his blood. "Bring out the cowardly brute!" the loyalists yelled.
The First Minister appeared to a chorus of "Hang, hang, hang the traitor!" and "We want Trimble with a rope around his neck!" "Your own mother in Dungannon would be ashamed of you," somebody shouted at Ken Maginnis.
The peace campaigners, determined not to be outdone, then tried to drown out the No camp. A Dublin photographer covered his ears. "Why does everybody have to shout and sing up here?"