The exuberance of his thought hindered Rudin from expressing himself
definitely and exactly. Images followed upon images; comparisons
started up one after another--now startlingly bold, now strikingly
true. It was not the complacent effort of the practised speaker, but
the very breath of inspiration that was felt in his impatient
improvising. He did not seek out his words; they came obediently and
spontaneously to his lips, and each word seemed to flow straight from
his soul, and was burning with all the fire of conviction. Rudin was
the master of almost the greatest secret--the music of eloquence. He
knew how in striking one chord of the heart to set all the others
vaguely quivering and resounding. Many of his listeners, perhaps, did
not understand very precisely what his eloquence was about; but their
bosoms heaved, it seemed as though veils were lifted before their
eyes, something radiant, glorious, seemed shimmering in the distance.

All Rudin's thoughts seemed centred on the future; this lent him
something of the impetuous dash of youth . . . Standing at the window,
not looking at any one in special, he spoke, and inspired by the
general sympathy and attention, the presence of young women, the
beauty of the night, carried along by the tide of his own emotions, he
rose to the height of eloquence, of poetry. . . . The very sound of
his voice, intense and soft, increased the fascination; it seemed as
though some higher power were speaking through his lips, startling
even to himself. . . . Rudin spoke of what lends eternal significance
to the fleeting life of man.

'I remember a Scandinavian legend,' thus he concluded, 'a king is
sitting with his warriors round the fire in a long dark barn. It was
night and winter. Suddenly a little bird flew in at the open door and