It was in the consciousness of this feeling—­the consciousness that, in his own person, he might voice, not only the feelings of his party, but those of the whole country—­that Loder rose an hour later to make his long-delayed attack.

He stood silent for a moment, as he had done on an earlier occasion; but this time his motive was different.  Roused beyond any feeling of self-consciousness, he waited as by right for the full attention of the House; then quietly, but with self-possessed firmness, he moved the motion for adjournment.

Like a match to a train of powder, the words set flame to the excitement that had smouldered for weeks; and in an atmosphere of stirring activity, a scene of such tense and vital concentration as the House has rarely witnessed, he found inspiration for his great achievement.

To give Loder’s speech in mere words would be little short of futile.  The gift of oratory is too illusive, too much a matter of eye and voice and individuality, to allow of cold reproduction.  To those who heard him speak on that night of April 18th the speech will require no recalling; and to those who did not hear him there would be no substitute in bare reproduction.

In the moment of action it mattered nothing to him that his previous preparations were to a great extent rendered useless by this news that had come with such paralyzing effect.  In the sweeping consciousness of his own ability, he found added joy in the freedom it opened up.  He ceased to consider that by fate he was a Conservative, bound by traditional conventionalities:  in that great moment he knew himself sufficiently a man to exercise whatever individuality instinct prompted.  He forgot the didactic methods by which he had proposed to show knowledge of his subject—­both as a past and a future factor in European politics.  With his own strong appreciation of present things, he saw and grasped the vast present interest lying beneath his hand.

For fifty minutes he held the interest of the House, speaking insistently, fearlessly, commandingly on the immediate need of action.  He unhesitatingly pointed out that the news which had just reached England was not so much an appalling fact as a sinister warning to those in whose keeping lay the safety of the country’s interests.  Lastly, with a fine touch of eloquence, he paid tribute to the steadfast fidelity of such men as Sir William Brice-Field, who, whatever political complications arise at home, pursue their duty unswervingly on the outposts of the empire.

At his last words there was silence—­the silence that marks a genuine effect—­then all at once, with vehement, impressive force, the storm of enthusiasm broke its bounds.

It was one of those stupendous bursts of feeling that no etiquette, no decorum is powerful enough to quell.  As he resumed his seat, very pale, but exalted as men are exalted only once or twice in a lifetime, it rose about him—­clamorous, spontaneous, undeniable.  Near at hand were the faces of his party, excited and triumphant; across the house were the faces of Sefborough and his Ministry, uncomfortable and disturbed.