For an instant after passing he disappeared beyond the speaker’s tribune, and the instant after reappeared once more, coming up the steps.  He reached his place—­she could see His profile beneath her and slightly to the left, pure and keen as the blade of a knife, beneath His white hair.  He lifted one white-furred sleeve, made a single motion, and with a surge and a rumble, the ten thousand were seated.  He motioned again and with a roar they were on their feet.

Again there was a silence.  He stood now, perfectly still, His hands laid together on the rail, and His face looking steadily before Him; it seemed as if He who had drawn all eyes and stilled all sounds were waiting until His domination were complete, and there was but one will, one desire, and that beneath His hand.  Then He began to speak....

* * * * *

In this again, as Mabel perceived afterwards, there was no precise or verbal record within her of what he said; there was no conscious process by which she received, tested, or approved what she heard.  The nearest image under which she could afterwards describe her emotions to herself, was that when He spoke it was she who was speaking.  Her own thoughts, her predispositions, her griefs, her disappointment, her passion, her hopes—­all these interior acts of the soul known scarcely even to herself, down even, it seemed, to the minutest whorls and eddies of thought, were, by this man, lifted up, cleansed, kindled, satisfied and proclaimed.  For the first time in her life she became perfectly aware of what human nature meant; for it was her own heart that passed out upon the air, borne on that immense voice.  Again, as once before for a few moments in Paul’s House, it seemed that creation, groaning so long, had spoken articulate words at last—­had come to growth and coherent thought and perfect speech.  Yet then He had spoken to men; now it was Man Himself speaking.  It was not one man who spoke there, it was Man—­Man conscious of his origin, his destiny, and his pilgrimage between, Man sane again after a night of madness—­knowing his strength, declaring his law, lamenting in a voice as eloquent as stringed instruments his own failure to correspond.  It was a soliloquy rather than an oration.  Rome had fallen, English and Italian streets had run with blood, smoke and flame had gone up to heaven, because man had for an instant sunk back to the tiger.  Yet it was done, cried the great voice, and there was no repentance; it was done, and ages hence man must still do penance and flush scarlet with shame to remember that once he turned his back on the risen light.

There was no appeal to the lurid, no picture of the tumbling palaces, the running figures, the coughing explosions, the shaking of the earth and the dying of the doomed.  It was rather with those hot hearts shouting in the English and German streets, or aloft in the winter air of Italy, the ugly passions that warred there, as the volors rocked at their stations, generating and fulfilling revenge, paying back plot with plot, and violence with violence.  For there, cried the voice, was man as he had been, fallen in an instant to the cruel old ages before he had learned what he was and why.