The Bishop rose and placed his hands upon the little table before him. He coughed. His voice was not quite as adequate as usual. This is what he said. "Mr. Gilbert Lothian, whose name all of you must know and whose works I am sure most of you, like myself, have in the most grateful remembrance, desires to address you." That was all the Bishop said--he made a motion with his hand and Gilbert Lothian rose from his chair and took two steps to the front of the platform. Those present saw a young man of medium height, neither fat nor slim, and with a very beautiful face. It was pale but the contour was perfect. Certainly it was very pale, but the eyes were bright and the æsthetic look and personality of the poet fitted in very well with what people had known of him in the past. Only Morton Sims, who was sitting within arm's reach of Lothian--and perhaps half a dozen other people who knew rather more than the rest--were startled at what seemed to be a transformation. As Lothian began to speak Father Joseph Edward glided from his seat, and leant over the back of Dr. Morton Sims' chair. This was a rather extraordinary proceeding and at any other time it would have been immediately remarked upon. As it was, the first words which Gilbert Lothian spoke held the audience so immediately that they forgot, or did not see the watchful waiting "Abbot of Mullion." In the first place Gilbert Lothian was perfectly self-possessed. He was so self-possessed that his initial sentence created a sensation. His way and manner were absolutely different from the ordinary speaker--however self-possessed he may be. The poet's self-possession had a quality of rigidity and automatism which thrilled every one. Yet, it was not an automaton which spoke in the clear, vibrating voice that Gilbert Lothian used. The voice was terrible in its appeal--even in the first sentence of the memorable speech. It was the sense of a personality standing in bonds, impelled and controlled by something outside it and above it--it was this that hushed all movement and murmur, that focussed all eyes as the poet began. The opening words of the poet were absolutely strange and unconventional, but spoken quite simply and in very short sentences. In the first instance it had been decided that reporters were not to be admitted to this Conference. Eventually that decision had been altered and a gentleman representing the principal Press Agency, together with a couple of assistants, sat at a small table just below the platform. It is from the shorthand transcript of the Press Agent and his colleagues that the few words Gilbert Lothian spoke have been arranged and set down here. Those who were present have read the words over and over again. They have remembered the gusts of emotion, of fear, of gladness--all wafted from the wings of tragedy, and perhaps illuminated by the light of Heaven, that passed through the Edward Hall on this afternoon. . . . He was speaking.