''Tis just,' said he, 'as if those monks and cardinals of old had busied themselves with setting up a lot of stone walls between folks and their Maker, so that they might keep their distance; and it was the same sort of thing the disciples of our Lord wanted to do when they tried to keep the children off Him that the mothers brought. "Go away," said they, "you are troubling the Master." But what did He do? He called the little ones to Him and laid His hands upon them and blessed them. That is _His_ fashion, and I reckon He is the same now as He was then.' And then, after that introductory speech, Sir Hubert Blair stepped forward; and looking down upon the crowd with shining eyes, and it seemed to me a light upon his face, he began to speak, at first slowly and with laboured distinctness, but presently more rapidly, with glowing words, and, ever and anon, gestures of great significance. 'I have been,' said he, 'to a land where the blessings of the Reformation do not exist, and I will tell you what sort of thing is going on there. Bigotry, intolerant bigotry, holds the kingdom of Spain in adamantine fetters. There, where the healing breath of the Reformation, with its God-sent tolerance has not come, cruelty, death and desolation are stalking through the land, leaving behind them a track of blood and tears, broken hearts and mourners weeping for their dear ones, whose innocent lives have been plucked from them by the cruel and relentless hands of torture----' He broke down for a moment or two, covering his face with his hands, and shuddering violently as if at some awful recollection, and a whisper went round among the more intelligent of the audience to the effect that he was speaking about the Inquisition, which was rampant in Spain, and of which traders and diplomatists had brought home many rumours.