The nods ceased, the whispers were
hushed, the stir fell and rose no more. Once again he had them, and,
inspired by that knowledge, the surest spur of eloquence, there rang
from his lips the last burning words, the picture of the vision that
ruled his life, the hope for the days that he might not see.

"Believe!" he cried, in passionate entreaty, "believe, and your sons
shall surely see!"

He sank in his seat, and the last echo of his resonant voice died away.
First came silence, and then a thunder of applause. Men stood up and
waved what they had in their hands, hats or handkerchiefs or papers;
women sat with their eyes still on him, or, with a gasp, leant back and
closed their lids. He sat with his head sunk on his breast, till the
tumult died away. No one rose. The Speaker looked round once and again.
Could it be that no one----? Slowly he began to rise. The movement
caught Sir Robert's attention: he signed to Puttock, who sprang heavily
to his feet. Puttock was no favourite as a speaker, and generally his
rising was a signal for the House to thin. He began his speech with his
stolid deliberation. Not a man stirred. They waited for something still.

"And now," whispered Medland to the Treasurer, who sat by him, "let's
see what it was in that infernal paper."

The Treasurer handed him what he asked.

"You ought to see it," he whispered back.

Mr. Puttock's voice droned on, and his sheaf of notes rustled in his
hand. No one looked at him or listened to him. Their eyes were still on
Medland. The Premier read--it seemed so slowly--put the paper down, and
gazed first up at the ceiling; then he glanced round, and found all the
attentive eyes on him: he smiled--it was just a visible smile, no
more--and his head fell again on his breast, while his hand idly twisted
a button on his coat.

The show was over, or had never come, and the deferred rush to the doors
began. They almost tumbled over one another now in their haste to reach
where their tongues could play freely. Kilshaw and Perry, the Treasurer
and the waverers, all slipped out, and Norburn, knowing nothing but
simply wearied of Puttock, followed them. Scarce twenty were left in the
House, and the galleries had poured half their contents into the great
room which served for a lobby outside. There the talk ran swift and
eager. The very name of "Benyon" was enough for many, who remembered
that it had always been said to be the maiden name of Medland's wife.
Coul