Читать книгу Temporal Power: A Study in Supremacy - Marie Corelli - Страница 11

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Up a long uncarpeted flight of stairs, and into a large lofty room on the second storey, Thord led the way for his newly-found disciples to follow. It was very dark, and they had to feel the steps as they went, their guide offering neither explanation nor apology for the Cimmerian shades of gloom. Stumbling on hands and knees they spoke not a word; though once Max Graub uttered something like an oath in rough German; but a whisper from Leroy rebuked and silenced him, and they pursued their difficult ascent until, arriving at the room mentioned, they found themselves in the company of about fifteen to twenty men, all sitting round a table under two flaring billiard lamps, suspended crookedly from the ceiling. As Thord entered, these men all rose, and gave him an expressive sign of greeting with the left hand, the same kind of gesture which had passed between him and Zegota on the Cathedral steps in the morning. Zegota himself was one of their number. There was also another personage in the room who did not rise, and who gave no sign whatever. This was a woman, who sat in the embrasure of a closed and shuttered window with her back to the whole company. It was impossible to say whether she was young or old, plain or handsome, for she was enveloped in a long black cloak which draped her from shoulder to heel. All that could be distinguished of her was the white nape of her neck, and a great twist of dead gold hair. Her presence awakened the liveliest interest in Pasquin Leroy, who found it impossible to avoid nudging his companions, and whispering—

“A woman! By Heaven, this drama becomes interesting!”

But Axel Regor and Max Graub were seemingly not disposed to levity, and they offered no response to their lighter minded comrade beyond vague hasty side-looks of alarm, which appeared to amuse him to an extent that threatened to go beyond the limits of caution. Sergius Thord, however, saw nothing of their interchange of glances for the moment,—he had other business to settle. Addressing himself at once to the men assembled, he said.—

“Friends and brothers! I bring you three new associates! I have not sought them; they have sought me. On their own heads be their destinies! They offer their names to the Revolutionary Committee, and their services to our Cause!”

A low murmur of approbation from the company greeted this announcement. Johan Zegota advanced a little in front of all the rest.

“Every man is welcome to serve us who will serve us faithfully,” he said. “But who are these new comrades, Sergius Thord? What are they?”

“That they must declare for themselves,” said Thord, taking a chair at the head of the table which was evidently his accustomed place—“Put them through their examination!”

He seated himself with the air of a king, his whole aspect betokening an authority that would not be trifled with or gainsaid.

“Gott in Himmel!”

This exclamation burst suddenly from the lips of the man called Max Graub.

“What ails you?” said Thord, turning full upon him his glittering eyes that flashed ferocity from under their shaggy brows—“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid? Not I!” protested Graub—“But, gentlemen, think a moment! You speak of putting us—myself and my friends—through an examination! Why should you examine us? We are three poor adventurers—what can we have to tell?”

“Much, I should imagine!” retorted Zegota—“Adventurers are not such without adventures! Your white hairs testify to some experience of life.”

“My white hairs—my white hairs!” exclaimed Graub, when a touch from Axel Regor apparently recalled something to his mind for he began to laugh—“True, gentlemen! Very true! I had forgotten! I have had some adventures and some experiences! My good friend there, Pasquin Leroy, has also had adventures and experiences,—so have we all! Myself, I am a poor German, grown old in the service of a bad king! I have been kicked out of that service—Ach!—just for telling the truth; which is very much the end of all truth telling, is it not? Tell lies,—and kings will reward you and make you rich and great!—but tell truth, and see what the kings will give you for it! Kicks, and no halfpence! Pardon! I interrupt this so pleasant meeting!”

All the men present looked at him curiously, but said nothing in response to his outburst. Johan Zegota, seating himself next to Sergius Thord, opened a large parchment volume that lay on the table, and taking up a pen addressed himself to Thord, saying—

“Will you ask the questions, or shall I?”

“You, by all means! Proceed in the usual manner.”

Whereupon Zegota began.—

“Stand forth, comrades!”

The three strangers advanced.

“Your names? Each one answer separately, please!”

“Pasquin Leroy!”

“Axel Regor!”

“Max Graub!”

“Of what nationality, Pasquin Leroy?”

Leroy smiled. “Truly I claim none!” he said; “I was born a slave.”

“A slave!”

The words were repeated in tones of astonishment round the room.

“Why, yes, a slave!” repeated Leroy quietly. “You have heard of black slaves,—have you not heard of white ones too? There are countries still, where men purchase other men of their own blood and colour;—tyrannous governments, which force such men to work for them, chained to one particular place till they die. I am one of those,—though escaped for the present. You can ask me more of my country if you will; but a slave has no country save that of his master. If you care at all for my services, you will spare me further examination on this subject!”

Zegota looked enquiringly at Thord.

“We will pass that question,” said the latter, in a low tone.

Zegota resumed—

“You, Axel Regor—are you a slave too?”

Axel Regor smiled languidly.

“No! I am what is called a free-born subject of the realm. I do what I like, though not always how I like, or when I like!”

“And you, Max Graub?”

“German!” said that individual firmly; “German to the backbone—Socialist to the soul!—and an enemy of all ruling sovereigns,—particularly the one that rules me!”

Thord smiled darkly.

“If you feel inclined to jest, Max Graub, I must warn you that jesting is not suited to the immediate moment.”

“Jesting! I never was more in earnest in my life!” declared Graub,—“Why have I left my native country? Merely because it is governed by Kaiser Wilhelm!”

Thord smiled again.

“The subject of nationality seems to excite all three of you,” he said, “and though we ask you the question pro forma, it is not absolutely necessary that we should know from whence you come. We require your names, and your oath of fealty; but before binding yourselves, I will read you our laws, and the rules of membership for this society; rules to which, if you join us, you are expected to conform.”

“Suppose, for the sake of argument,” said Pasquin Leroy,—“that after hearing the rules we found it wisest to draw back? Suppose my friends,—if not myself,—were disinclined to join your Society;—what would happen?”

As he asked the question a curious silence fell upon the company, and all eyes were turned upon the speaker. There was a dead pause for a moment, and then Thord replied slowly and with emphasis:—

“Nothing would happen save this,—that you would be bound by a solemn oath never to reveal what you had heard or seen here to-night, and that you would from henceforth be tracked every day and hour of your life by those who would take care that you kept your oath!”

“You see!” exclaimed Axel Regor excitedly, “There is danger——”

“Danger? Of what?” asked Pasquin Leroy coldly;—“Of death? Each one of us, and all three of us would fully merit it, if we broke our word! Gentlemen both!”—and he addressed his two companions, “If you fear any harm may come to yourselves through joining this society, pray withdraw while there is yet time! My own mind is made up; I intend to become familiar with the work of the Revolutionary Committee, and to aid its cause by my personal service!”

A loud murmur of applause came from the company. Axel Regor and Max Graub glanced at Leroy, and saw in his face that his decision was unalterable.

“Then we will work for the Cause, also,” said Max Graub resignedly. “What you determine upon, we shall do, shall we not, Axel?”

Axel Regor gave a brief assent.

Sergius Thord looked at them all straightly and keenly.

“You have finally decided?”

“We have!” replied Leroy. “We will enrol ourselves as your associates at once.”

Whereupon Johan Zegota rose from his place, and unlocking an iron safe which stood in one corner of the room, took out a roll of parchment and handed it to Thord, who, unfolding it, read in a clear though low voice the following:—

“We, the Revolutionary Committee, are organized as a Brotherhood, bound by all the ties of life, death, and our common humanity, to destroy the abuses, and redress the evils, which self-seeking and tyrannous Governments impose upon the suffering poor.

“Firstly: We bind ourselves to resist all such laws as may in any degree interfere with the reasonable, intellectual, and spiritual freedom of man or woman.

“Secondly: We swear to agitate against all forms of undue and excessive taxation, which, while scarcely affecting the rich, make life more difficult and unendurable to the poor.

“Thirdly: We protest against the domination of priestcraft, and the secret methods which are employed by the Church to obtain undue influence in Governmental matters.

“Fourthly: We are determined to stand firmly against the entrance of foreign competitors in the country’s trade and business. All heads and ruling companies of firms employing foreigners instead of native workmen, are marked out by us as traitors, and are reserved for traitors’ punishment.

“Fifthly: We are sworn to exterminate the existing worthless Government, and to replace it by a working body of capable and intelligent men, elected by the universal vote of the entire country. Such elections must take place freely and openly, and no secret influence shall be used to return any one person or party to power. Those attempting to sway opinion by bribery and corruption, will be named to the public, and exposed to disgrace and possible death.

“Sixthly: We are resolved to unmask to the public the duplicity, treachery, and self-interested motives of the Secretary of State, Carl Pérousse.

“Seventhly: We are sworn to bring about such changes as shall elevate a Republic to supreme power, and for this purpose are solemnly pledged to destroy the present Monarchy.”

“These,” said Sergius Thord, “are the principal objects of our Society’s work. There are other points to be considered, but these are sufficient for the present. I will now read the rules, which each member of our Brotherhood must follow if he would serve us faithfully.”

He turned over another leaf of the parchment scroll he held, and continued, reading very slowly and distinctly:

“Rule 1.—Each member of the Revolutionary Committee shall swear fidelity to the Cause, and pledge himself to maintain inviolable secrecy on all matters connected with his membership and his work for the Society.

“Rule 2.—No member shall track, follow, or enquire into the movements of any other member.

“Rule 3.—Once in every month all members are expected to meet together at a given place, decided upon by the Chief of the Committee at the previous meeting, when business will be discussed, and lots drawn, to determine the choice of such members as may be fitted to perform such business.

“Rule 4.—No member shall be bound to give his address, or to state where he travels, or when or how he goes, as in all respects save that of his membership he is a free man.

“Rule 5.—In this same respect of his membership, he is bound to appear, or to otherwise report himself once a month at the meeting of the Committee. Should he fail to do so either by person, or by letter satisfactorily explaining his absence, he will be judged as a traitor, and dealt with accordingly.

“Rule6.—In the event of any member being selected to perform any deed involving personal danger or loss to himself, the rest of the members are pledged to shelter him from the consequences of his act, and to provide him with all the necessaries of life, till his escape from harm is ensured and his safety guaranteed.”

“You have heard all now,” said Thord, as he laid aside the parchment scroll; “Are you still willing to take the oath?”

“Entirely so!” rejoined Pasquin Leroy cheerfully; “You have but to administer it.”

Here a man, who had been sitting in a dark corner apart from the table, with his head buried in his hands, suddenly looked up, showing a thin, fine, eager face, a pair of wild eyes, and a tumbled mass of dark curly hair, plentifully sprinkled with grey.

“Ah!” he cried,—“Now comes the tragic moment, when the spectators hold their breath, and the blue flame is turned on, and the man manages the lime-light so that its radiance shall fall on the face of the chief actor—or Actress! And the bassoons and ‘cellos grumble inaudible nothings to the big drum! Administer the oath, Sergius Thord!”

A smile went the round of the company.

“Have you only just wakened up from sleep, Paul Zouche?” asked Zegota.

“I never sleep,” answered Zouche, pushing his hair back from his forehead;—“Unless sleep compels me, by force, to yield to its coarse and commonplace persuasion. To lie down in a shirt and snore the hours away! Faugh! Can anything be more gross or vulgar! Time flies so quickly, and life is so short, that I cannot afford to waste any moment in such stupid unconsciousness. I can drink wine, make love, and kill rascals—all these occupations are much more interesting than sleeping. Come, Sergius! Play the great trick of the evening! Administer the oath!”

A frowning line puckered Thord’s brows, but the expression of vexation was but momentary. Turning to Leroy again he said:

“You are quite ready?”

“Quite,” replied Leroy.

“And your friends——?”

Leroy smiled. “They are ready also!”

There followed a pause. Then Thord called in a clear low tone—

“Lotys!”

The woman sitting in the embrasure of the window rose, and turning round fully confronted all the men. Her black cloak falling back on either side, disclosed her figure robed in dead white, with a scarlet sash binding her waist. Her face, pale and serene, was not beautiful; yet beauty was suggested in every feature. Her eyes seemed to be half closed in a drooping indifference under the white lids, which were fringed heavily with dark gold lashes. A sculptor might have said, that whatever claim to beauty she had was contained in the proud poise of her throat, and the bounteous curve of her bosom, but though in a manner startled by her appearance, the three men who had chanced upon this night’s adventure were singularly disappointed in it. They had somehow expected that when that mysterious cloaked feminine figure turned round, a vision of dazzling beauty would be disclosed; and at the first glance there was nothing whatever about this woman that seemed particularly worthy of note. She was not young or old—possibly between twenty-eight or thirty. She was not tall or short; she was merely of the usual medium height,—so that altogether she was one of those provoking individuals, who not seldom deceive the eye at first sight by those ordinary looks which veil an extraordinary personality.

She stood like an automatic figure, rigid and silent,—till Sergius Thord signed to his three new associates to advance. Then with a movement, rapid as a flash of lightning, she suddenly drew a dagger from her scarlet girdle, and held it out to them. Nerved as he was to meet danger, Pasquin Leroy recoiled slightly, while his two companions started as if to defend him. As she saw this, the woman raised her drooping eyelids, and a pair of wonderful eyes shone forth, dark blue as iris-flowers, while a faint scornful smile lifted the corners of her mouth. But she said nothing.

“There is no cause to fear!” said Sergius Thord, glancing with a touch of derision in his looks from one to the other, “Lotys is the witness of all our vows! Swear now after me upon this drawn dagger which she holds,—lay your right hands here upon the blade!”

Thus adjured, Pasquin Leroy approached, and placed his right hand upon the shining steel.

“I swear in the name of God, and in the presence of Lotys, that I will faithfully work for the Cause of the Revolutionary Committee,—and that I will adhere to its rules and obey its commands, till all shall be done that is destined to be done! And may the death I deserve come suddenly upon me if ever I break my vow!”

Slowly and emphatically Pasquin Leroy repeated this formula after Sergius Thord, and his two companions did the same, though perhaps less audibly. This ceremony performed, the woman called Lotys looked at them steadfastly, and the smile that played on her lips changed from scorn to sweetness. The dark blue iris-coloured eyes deepened in lustre, and flashed brilliantly from under their drowsy lids,—a rosy flush tinted the clear paleness of her skin, and like a statue warming to life she became suddenly beautiful.

“You have sworn bravely!” she said, in a low thrilling voice. “Now sign and seal!”

As she spoke she lifted her bare left arm, and pricked it with the point of the dagger. A round, full drop of blood like a great ruby welled up on the white skin. All the men had risen from their places, and were gathered about her;—this ‘taking of the oath’ was evidently the dramatic event of their existence as a community.

“The pen, Sergius!” she said.

Thord approached with a white unused quill, and a vellum scroll on which the names of all the members of the Society were written in ominous red. He handed these writing implements to Leroy.

“Dip your pen here,” said Lotys, pointing to the crimson drop on her arm, and eyeing him still with the same half-sweet, half-doubting smile—“But when the quill is full, beware that you write no treachery!”

For one second Leroy appeared to hesitate. He was singularly unnerved by the glances of those dark blue eyes, which like searchlights seemed to penetrate into every nook and cranny of his soul. But his recklessness and love of adventure having led him so far, it was now too late to retract or to reconsider the risks he might possibly be running. He therefore took the quill and dipped it into the crimson drop that welled from that soft white flesh.

“This is the strangest ink I have ever used!” he said lightly,—“but—at your command, Madame——!”

“At my command,” rejoined Lotys, “your use of it shall make your oath indelible!”

He smiled, and wrote his name boldly ‘Pasquin Leroy’ and held out the pen for his companions to follow his example.

“Ach Gott!” exclaimed Max Graub, as he dipped the pen anew into the vital fluid from a woman’s veins—“I write my name, Madame, in words of life, thanks to your condescension!”

“True!” she answered,—“And only by your own falsehood can you change them into words of death!”

Signing his name ‘Max Graub,’ he looked up and met her searching gaze. Something there was in the magnetic depth of her eyes that strangely embarrassed him, for he stepped back hastily as though intimidated. Axel Regor took the pen from his hand, and wrote his name, or rather scrawled it carelessly, almost impatiently,—showing neither hesitation nor repugnance to this unusual method of subscribing a document.

“You are acting on compulsion!” said Lotys, addressing him in a low tone; “Your compliance is in obedience to some other command than ours! And—you will do well to remain obedient!”

Axel Regor gave her an amazed glance,—but she paid no heed to it, and binding her arm with her kerchief, let her long white sleeve fall over it.

“So, you are enrolled among the sons of my blood!” she said, “So are you bound to me and mine!” She moved to the further end of the table and stood there looking round upon them all. Again the slow, sweet, half-disdainful smile irradiated her features. “Well, children!—what else remains to do? What next? What next can there be but drink—smoke—talk! Man’s three most cherished amusements!”

She sat down, throwing back her heavy cloak on either side of her. Her hair had come partly unbound, and noticing a tress of it falling on her shoulder, she drew out the comb and let it fall altogether in a mass of gold-brown, like the tint of a dull autumn leaf, flecked here and there with amber. Catching it dexterously in one hand, she twisted it up again in a loose knot, thrusting the comb carelessly through.

“Drink—smoke—talk, Sergius!” she repeated, still smiling; “Shall I ring?”

Sergius Thord stood looking at her irresolutely, with the half-angry, half-pleading expression of a chidden child.

“As you please, Lotys!” he answered. Whereupon she pressed an invisible spring under the table, which set a bell ringing in some lower quarter of the house.

“Pasquin Leroy, Axel Regor, Max Graub!” she said—“Take your places for to-night beside me—newcomers are always thus distinguished! And all of you sit down! You are grouped at present like hungry wolves waiting to spring. But you are not really hungry, except for something which is not food! And you are not waiting for anything except for permission to talk! I give it to you—talk, children! Talk yourselves hoarse! It will do you good! And I will personate supreme wisdom by listening to you in silence!”

A kind of shamed laugh went round the company,—then followed the scuffling of feet, and grating of chairs against the floor, and presently the table was completely surrounded, the men sitting close up together, and Sergius Thord occupying his place at their head.

When they were all seated, they formed a striking assembly of distinctly marked personalities. There were very few mean types among them, and the stupid, half-vague and languid expression of the modern loafer or ‘do nothing’ creature, who just for lack of useful work plots mischief, was not to be seen on any of their countenances. A certain moroseness and melancholy seemed to brood like a delayed storm among them, and to cloud the very atmosphere they breathed, but apart from this, intellectuality was the dominant spirit suggested by their outward looks and bearing. Plebeian faces and vulgar manners are, unfortunately, not rare in representative gatherings of men whose opinions are allowed to sway the destinies of nations, and it was strange to see a group of individuals who were sworn to upset existing law and government so distinguished by refined and even noble appearance. Their clothes were shabby,—their aspect certainly betokened long suffering and contention with want and poverty, but they were, taken all together, a set of men who, if they had been members of a recognized parliament or senate, would have presented a fine collection of capable heads to an observant painter. As soon as they were gathered round the table under the presidency of Sergius Thord at one end, and the tranquil tolerance of the mysterious Lotys at the other, they broke through the silence and reserve which they had carefully maintained till their three new comrades had been irrecoverably enrolled among them, and conversation went on briskly. The topic of ‘The King versus the Jesuits’ was one of the first they touched upon, Sergius Thord relating for the benefit of all his associates, how he had found Pasquin Leroy reading by lamplight the newspaper which reported his Majesty’s refusal to grant any portion of Crown lands to the priests, and which also spoke of ‘Thord’s Rabble.’

“Here is the paper!” said Leroy, as he heard the narration; “Whoever likes to keep it can do so, as a memento of my introduction to this Society!”

And he tossed it lightly on the table.

“Good!” exclaimed Paul Zouche; “Give it to me, and I will cherish it as a kind of birthday card! What a rag it is! ‘Thord’s Rabble’ eh! Sergius, what have you been doing that this little flea of an editor should jump out of his ink-pot and bite you? Does he hurt much?”

“Hurt!” Thord laughed aloud. “If I had money enough to pay the man ten golden coins a week where his present employer gives him five, he would dance to any tune I whistled!”

“Is that so?” asked Leroy, with interest.

“Do you not know that it is so?” rejoined Thord. “You tell me you write Socialistic works—you should know something concerning the press.”

“Ah!” said Max Graub, nodding his head sagely, “He does know much, but not all! It would need more penetration than even he possesses, to know all! Alas!—my friend was never a popular writer!”

“Like myself!” exclaimed Zouche, “I am not popular, and I never shall be. But I know how to make myself reputed as a great genius, and all the very respectable literary men are beginning to recognize me as such. Do you know why?”

“Because you drink more than is good for you, my poor Zouche!” said Lotys tranquilly; “That is one reason!”

“Hear her!” cried Zouche,—“Does she not always, like the Sphinx, propound enigmas! Lotys,—little, domineering Lotys, why in the name of Heaven should I secure recognition as a poet, through drunkenness?”

“Because your vice kills your genius,” said Lotys; “Therefore you are quite safe! If you were less of a scamp you would be a great man,—perhaps the greatest in the country! That would never do! Your rivals would never forgive you! But you are a hopeless rascal, incapable of winning much honour; and so you are compassionately recognized as somebody who might do something if he only would—that is all, my Zouche! You are an excellent after-dinner topic with those who are more successful than yourself; and that is the only fame you will ever win, believe me!”

“Now by all the gods and goddesses!” cried Paul—“I do protest——”

“After supper, Zouche!” interrupted Lotys, as the door of the room opened, and a man entered, bearing a tray loaded with various eatables, jugs of beer, and bottles of spirituous liquors,—“Protest as much as you like then,—but not just now!”

And with quick, deft hands she helped to set the board. None of the men offered to assist her, and Leroy watching her, felt a sudden sense of annoyance that this woman should seem, even for a moment, to be in the position of a servant to them all.

“Can I do nothing for you?” he said, in a low tone—“Why should you wait upon us?”

“Why indeed!” she answered—“Except that you are all by nature awkward, and do not know how to wait properly upon yourselves!”

Her eyes had a gleam of mischievous mockery in them; and Leroy was conscious of an irritation which he could scarcely explain to himself. Decidedly, he thought, this Lotys was an unpleasant woman. She was ‘extremely plain,’ so he mentally declared, in a kind of inward huff,—though he was bound to concede that now and then she had a very beautiful, almost inspired expression. After all, why should she not set out jugs and bottles, and loaves of bread, and hunks of ham and cheese before these men? She was probably in their pay! Scarcely had this idea flashed across his mind than he was ashamed of it. This Lotys, whoever she might actually be, was no paid hireling; there was something in her every look and action that set her high above any suspicion that she would accept the part of a salaried comédienne in the Socialist farce. Annoyed with himself, though he knew not why, he turned his gaze from her to the man who had brought in the supper,—a hunchback, who, notwithstanding his deformity, was powerfully built, and of a countenance which, marked as it was with the drawn pathetic look of long-continued physical suffering, was undeniably handsome. His large brown eyes, like those of a faithful dog, followed every movement of Lotys with anxious and wistful affection, and Leroy, noticing this, began to wonder whether she was his wife or daughter? Or was she related in either of these ways to Sergius Thord? His reflections were interrupted by a slight touch from Max Graub who was seated next to him.

“Will you drink with these fellows?” said Graub, in a cautious whisper—“Expect to be ill, if you do!”

“You shall prescribe for me!” answered Leroy in the same low tone—“I faithfully promise to call in your assistance! But drink with them I must, and will!”

Graub gave a short sigh and a shrug, and said no more. The hunchback was going the round of the table, filling tall glasses with light Bavarian beer.

“Where is the little Pequita?” asked Zouche, addressing him—“Have you sent her to bed already, Sholto?”

Sholto looked timorously round till he met the bright reassuring glance of Lotys, and then he replied hesitatingly—

“Yes!—no—I have not sent the little one to bed;—she returned from her work at the theatre, tired out—quite tired out, poor child! She is asleep now.”

“Ha ha! A few years more, and she will not sleep!” said Zouche—“Once in her teens—”

“Once in her teens, she leaves the theatre and comes to me,” said Lotys, “And you will see very little of her, Zouche, and you will know less! That will do, Sholto! Good-night!”

“Good-night!” returned the hunchback—“I thank you, Madame!—I thank you, gentlemen!”

And with a slight salutation, not devoid of grace, he left the room.

Zouche was sulky, and pushing aside his glass of beer, poured out for himself some strong spirit from a bottle instead.

“You do not favour me to-night, Lotys,” he said irritably—“You interrupt and cross me in everything I say!”

“Is it not a woman’s business to interrupt and cross a man?” queried Lotys, with a laugh,—“As I have told you before, Zouche, I will not have Sholto worried!”

“Who worries him?” grumbled Zouche—“Not I!”

“Yes, you!—you worry him on his most sensitive point—his daughter,” said Lotys;—“Why can you not leave the child alone? Sholto is an Englishman,” she explained, turning to Pasquin Leroy and his companions—“His history is a strange one enough. He is the rightful heir to a large estate in England, but he was born deformed. His father hated him, and preferred the second son, who was straight and handsome. So Sholto disappeared.”

“Disappeared!” echoed Leroy—“You mean——”

“I mean that he left his father’s house one morning, and never returned. The clothes he wore were found floating in the river near by, and it was concluded that he had been drowned while bathing. The second son, therefore, inherited the property; and poor Sholto was scarcely missed; certainly not mourned. Meanwhile he went away, and got on board a Spanish trading boat bound for Cadiz. At Cadiz he found work, and also something that sweetened work—love! He married a pretty Spanish girl who adored him, and—as often happens when lovers rejoice too much in their love—she died after a year’s happiness. Sholto is all alone in the world with the little child his Spanish wife left him, Pequita. She is only eleven years old, but her gift of dancing is marvellous, and she gets employment at one of the cheap theatres here. If an influential manager could see her performance, she might coin money.”

“The influential manager would probably cheat her,” said Zouche,—“Things are best left alone. Sholto is content!”

“Are you content?” asked Johan Zegota, helping himself from the bottle that stood near him.

“I? Why, no! I should not be here if I were!”

“Discontent, then, is your chief bond of union?” said Axel Regor, beginning to take part in the conversation.

“It is the very knot that ties us all together!” said Zouche with enthusiasm.—“Discontent is the mother of progress! Adam was discontented with the garden of Eden,—and found a whole world outside its gates!”

“He took Eve with him to keep up the sickness of dissatisfaction,” said Zegota; “There would certainly have been no progress without her!”

“Pardon,—Cain was the true Progressivist and Reformer,” put in Graub; “Some fine sentiment of the garden of Eden was in his blood, which impelled him to offer up a vegetable sacrifice to the Deity, whereas Abel had already committed murder by slaying lambs. According to the legend, God preferred the ‘savour’ of the lambs, so perhaps,—who knows!—the idea that the savour of Abel might be equally agreeable to Divine senses induced Cain to kill him as a special ‘youngling.’ This was a Progressive act,—a step beyond mere lambs!”

Everyone laughed, except Sergius Thord. He had fallen into a heavy, brooding silence, his head sunk on his breast, his wild hair falling forward like a mane, and his right hand clenched and resting on the table.

“Sergius!” called Lotys.

He did not answer.

“He is in one of his far-away moods,”—said one of the men next to Axel Regor,—“It is best not to disturb him.”

Paul Zouche, however, had no such scruples. “Sergius!” he cried,—“Come out of your cloud of meditation! Drink to the health of our three new comrades!”

All the members of the company filled their glasses, and Thord, hearing the noise and clatter, looked up with a wild stare.

“What are you doing?” he asked slowly;—“I thought some one spoke of Cain killing Abel!”

“It was I,” said Graub—“I spoke of it—irreverently, I fear,—but the story itself is irreverent. The notion that ‘God,’ should like roast meat is the height of blasphemy!”

Zouche burst into a violent fit of laughter. But Thord went on talking in a low tone, as though to himself.

“Cain killing Abel!” he repeated—“Always the same horrible story is repeated through history—brother against brother,—blood crying out for blood—life torn from the weak and helpless body—all for what? For a little gold,—a passing trifle of power! Cain killing Abel! My God, art Thou not yet weary of the old eternal crime!”

He spoke in a semi-whisper which thrilled through the room. A momentary hush prevailed, and then Lotys called again, her voice softened to a caressing sweetness.

“Sergius!”

He started, and shook himself out of his reverie this time. Raising his hand, he passed it in a vague mechanical way across his brow as though suddenly wakened from a dream.

“Yes, yes! Let us drink to our three new comrades,” he said, and rose to his feet. “To your health, friends! And may you all stand firm in the hour of trial!”

All the company sprang up and drained their glasses, and when the toast was drunk and they were again seated, Pasquin Leroy asked if he might be allowed to return thanks.

“I do not know,” he said with a courteous air, “whether it is permissible for a newly-enrolled associate of this Brotherhood to make a speech on the first night of his membership,—but after the cordial welcome I and my comrades, strangers as we are, have received at your hands, I should like to say a few words—if, without breaking any rules of the Order, I may do so.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Zouche, who had been steadily drinking for the last few moments,—“Speak on, man! Whoever heard of a dumb Socialist! Rant—rant! Rant and rave!—as I do, when the fit is on me! Do I not, Thord? Do I not move you even to tears?”

“And laughter!” put in Zegota. “Hold your tongue, Zouche! No other man can talk at all, if you once begin!”

Zouche laughed, and drained his glass.

“True!—my genius is of an absorbing quality! Silence, gentlemen! Silence for our new comrade! ‘Pasquin’ stands for the beginning of a jest—so we may hope he will be amusing,—‘Leroy’ stands for the king, and so we may expect him to be non-political!”