In his usual place on the upper bench beside his brother, he poured out his words with the flow and passion of a bird's song.

He was out of the sphere of argument; but the whole experience of a long and honourable lifetime was vibrant in that utterance.

He spoke from his heart.

All that had gone to make his faith, all the inmost convictions of his life were implicit--and throughout all ran the sense in the assembly who heard him, not only that he had risked, but that he was eager to give his life for proof.

It was not strange that this should be so, for he was going on what he believed would be his last journey to France; and when he reached the supreme moment of his passion with the words "In the name of God, we here who are about to die, perhaps," the last word was little more than a concession to the conventions.
It was a speech, in short, that made one believe in impossibilities; but in Parliament no miracles happen.