“I raised my spear to heaven. 'For God and Britain!' I cried, and my cry was answered in kind. And then I was racing down the hillside, my cloak rippling out behind me, the wind singing from my dark-glinting spearhead.”

“I cry to you, my Lord, my rock! Do not be deaf to me, for if you are silent, I shall go down to the pit like the rest. Hear my voice raised in petition as I cry to you for help, as I raise my hands, my Lord, toward your holy of holies.”

“I was not weak; I did not cry. But it hurt me, more in a kind of refreshing, thrilling way, than a kind of pain that would cripple me and send me away crying. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands, and my teeth bit into my lips, my knees were locked, but I could not faint.”

“Once in a stately passion I cried with desperate grief'Oh Lord, my heart is black with guile, of sinners I am chief'Then stooped my guardian angel and whispered from behind 'Vanity my little man, you're nothing of the kind' ”

“Is there a living man in the country?" cried the Russian hero. I cry the same, though I am not a hero, and no one answers my cry.”

“I have caught sight of my true friend rounding the hillside in his cloak of rain”