He began to speak, slowly and haltingly at first, then more rapidly.

At last he poured out with breathless, incoherent speed the strange story of the Armageddon vision, the hopes that were in him, the fierce enthusiasm, the passionate love for Ireland which burnt in his soul.

He was not conscious of the gaping inconsequences of his train of emotion.

He did not recognise how ridiculous it was to connect the Boer War with the Apocalyptic battle of the saints, or the utter impossibility of getting either one or the other into any sort of relation with the existing condition of Ireland.
A casual observer might have supposed that Hyacinth had made a mistake in telling his story to Father Moran.

A smile, threatening actual laughter, hovered visibly round the priest's mouth.