He stood in the packed building, a small lonely figure, pathetic in
the isolation that shut him off from the warm humanity of the watching
crowd.
He felt weak, ill, but he struggled to bear himself bravely. He could
not move his eyes from the stern white face that seemed to fill all
the space in front of him. About that cold minatory figure, which was
speaking to him in such passionless even tones, clung an atmosphere of
awe; the traditional robes of office lent it a majesty that crushed
his will.
He knew he was being addressed, and he strove to listen. His brain was
a torrent of thoughts. And so his life had come to this. It was indeed
the final catastrophe. That was surely what the voice meant--that
voice which went on and on in an even stream of sound without meaning.
Why had he come to this--in the flower of his life to lose its
chiefest gift, Liberty?
Up and down the spaces of his brain thought sped like fire. The people
behind--did they care? A few perhaps pitied him. The others were
indifferent. To them it was merely a spectacle.
Suddenly into his mind crept the consciousness of a vast silence. The
voice had stopped. The abrupt cessation of sound whipped his quivering
nerves. It was like the holding of a great breath.
He gathered his forces. He knew that the huge concourse waited. A
question had been put to him. It seemed as if the world stood still to
listen.
He moistened his lips. He knew what he had meant to say, but his
tongue was a traitor to his desire. What use now to plead? The
soundlessness grew intolerable. He thought he should cry aloud.