He too "saw red"; a mighty spirit of revolt heaved tumultuous within him.

It did not seem possible that this outrage could go on much longer.

The oppression was incredible; the plain story of it set down in truthful statement of fact would not be believed by the outside world.
He went up to his little room and paced the floor with clenched fists and burning face, till at last, the repression of his contending thoughts all but suffocated him, and he flung himself before his table and began to write.

For a time, his pen seemed to travel of itself; words came to him without searching, shaping themselves into phrases,--the phrases building themselves up to great, forcible sentences, full of eloquence, of fire, of passion.

As his prose grew more exalted, it passed easily into the domain of poetry.