He had just got to the point where, with a hoarse and deep note in his usually cold voice, he said to Mr.Morley that if the Chief Secretary would move the omission of all the "safeguards" from the Bill, he would vote along with him.

There was a tone almost of ferocity--the tone which conveyed all the rage and despair of the Ascendency party in Ireland at the prospect of departing power--the fury of the Castle official that saw the approaching overthrow of all the powerful citadel of fraud and cruelty and wrong, of which he had been one of the chief pillars.

And as Mr.Carson was uttering these words, I saw his profile--which often reveals more of men's natures than the front face.
[Sidenote: A curious reminiscence.] I suppose I shall be considered very fantastic--but do you know what I thought of at that very moment?
Some years ago, I stood at Epsom close to the ropes and saw Fred Archer pass me as he swept like the whirlwind to the winning-post in the last Derby he ever rode.

Between Mr.Carson and Mr.Fred Archer, especially in the profile, there is a certain and even a close resemblance; the same long lantern face, the same sunken cheeks, the same prominent mouth, the same skin dark as the gipsy's.
Never shall I forget the look on Fred Archer's face at the moment when I saw it--it was but for a second--and yet the impression dwells ineffaceable upon my memory and imagination.

There was a curious mixture of terror, resolve, hope, despair on the sunken cheeks that was almost appalling--that look represented, embodied, summed up, as though in some sudden glimpse of another and a nether world, all the terrible and awful passions that stormed at the hearts of thousands in the great gambling panorama all around.