Growing each moment more and more conscious of his strength,
he attained the heights of eloquence. Intoxicated with the reflex
action from the sea of eager listeners, he outdid himself with each
succeeding climax of feeling. Never had his voice been so deep,
so full, so clear, so penetrating, so thrilling, and never had he
been so conscious of its control. Not once did it break. Its loudest
trumpet note echoed with sure roundness.
When he turned his eyes from Van Meter after his first assault they
rested on the face of Kate Ransom, her magnificent figure tense,
rigid, her cheeks scarlet, her blue eyes flashing with tears of
excitement. She was stirred to her soul's depths, and no figure in
all the throbbing crowd gave to the speaker such inspiring response.
Her face flashed back as from a mirror every throb of thought and
stroke of his heart.
Van Meter gazed on him hypnotised by the violence of his onrush.
When Gordon would suddenly lift his enormous blue-veined hand
high over his head in an impassioned gesture the Deacon cowered
unconsciously beneath his towering figure.
Pausing a moment, while the crowd held its' breath, watching every
movement and every twitch of a muscle of his face, he pointed his
long finger at the Deacon and continued:
"And, as if to mock intelligence, Tradition raises the feeble cry
of reminiscent senility, 'Back to the old paths!'
"Protestantism is the rebellion of reason against the shackles of
authority.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139