The ordeal before him had then been so terrible, that it had
almost obliterated for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight.
He had hardly been able to perceive what had been going on around
him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy himself in recalling to
his memory the words which he wished to pronounce. When the time for
pronouncing them had come, he had found himself unable to stand upon
his legs. He smiled as he recalled all this in his memory, waiting
impatiently for the moment in which he might rise. His audience was
assured to him now, and he did not fear it. His opportunity for
utterance was his own, and even the Speaker could not deprive him of
it. During these minutes he thought not at all of the words that he
was to say. He had prepared his matter but had prepared no words. He
knew that words would come readily enough to him, and that he had
learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly into language while
standing with a crowd of listeners around him,--as a practised writer
does when seated in his chair. There was no violent beating at his
heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the ground was
turning round under his feet. If only those weary vain questions
would get themselves all asked, so that he might rise and begin the
work of the night.
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