Slowly the American walked, attended by the officers of the House, across the deserted lobby, along the empty corridor, then into Westminster Hall, and down the broad stairway, until the tumult died away in the far distance, till only the stone flags answered to his tread, and the walls echoed. His way was lined with statues, pale ghostly effigies of Kings and Statesmen, their triumphs all forgotten, their griefs assuaged, their sins, their penances, their burning passions stilled. Many of these had been arraigned, attainted, slain, or fretted themselves to death, or died in harness, builders of England, architects of her Freedom, forerunners of her Peace. So he came to the doors and passed out into the sweet air of the evening, refreshed and humbled. Perhaps, in his zeal for the Queen, he had dealt rather too abruptly with the Commons. This man was but thirty years old. With reverend age such as ours, and our maturer wisdom, he would not have dared to mount that perilous Chariot of the Sun, or threatened senates, or laid impatient hands on grave affairs. It was not his fault that we were falling into Russian vassalage, or that his disloyal servant shattered the standard of gold; he lacked the benefit of our sage advice, and if he greatly dared, he suffered for his audacity in trying to rescue the Empire by affronting the Commons. Some day his statue will be joined to that white avenue of the mighty dead who set the landmarks on the way of life. That night, whatever its cost to the master of Lyonesse, we entered the region of Etheric Power, and the beginning of a more spacious age. For so rolls the ordered motion of our race from height to height up the great way towards Heaven. The fences are breaking down, the barriers are conquered, and our horizon broadens as we climb. We hope that the walls of Time and Space shall melt, the skies be torn asunder like a scroll, and when we win to the last heights of human destiny, we shall stand upon white summits, we shall behold the Infinite.