forsworn violence. Ah! if I could only make the prince change.
Bakounine's death had no effect; Netschajew's fate did not move him; nor
was Illowski's mad attempt to burn down Paris with his incendiary
symphony an example to our prince that those who take up the sword
perish by the sword. Ah, Tolstoy, dear Leon Nikolaievitch, you showed me
the true way to master the world by love and not by hate! Until I
read--but there, it's late. Come with me to your room. You may smoke and
sleep when you will. In the morning I will show you my--toys." They
shook hands formally and parted.

His bed was hard, and his room cheerless, but anything, even a haymow,
rather than walking back to the station. After he went to his bed, he
rehearsed the day's doings from the three hours' ride in the train to
the tower. How weary he was! Hark--some one played the piano! A Chopin
mazourka! It was the princess. Mila! How lovely her touch!... Mila! What
a lovely name! A sleeping princess. A prince with such a sleepy head.
How the girl could play ... along the spiral road he saw the music glow
in enigmatic figures of fire....

II

THE PANACEA OF CORUSCATION

He seemed to be uttering her name when he awoke. It was daylight; the
sun poured its rays over his face, and he asked himself how he could
have fallen asleep leaving the lamp burning on the table near his bed.
He must have slept long, for he felt rested, cheerful--happy. As he
dressed he speculated whether it was the sunshine, or the prospect of
going back to life, or--or--Did he wish to return so soon? He wondered
what Mila was doing. Then he went into the stone corridor and coughed as
a hint that he was up. Not a sound but the persistent fall at a distance
of some heavy metallic substance. It must be Karospina in his workshop,
at his rockets, pinwheels, torpedoes, and firecrackers. What a singular
change in a bloodthirsty revolutionist. And how childish! Had he
squandered his millions on futile experimentings? What his object, what
his scheme, for the amelioration of mankind's woes? Gerald's stomach
warned him that coffee and rolls were far dearer to him than the
downfall of tyranny's bastions, and impatiently he began whistling. The
rhythmic thud never ceased. He noticed an open door at the back of the
house, and he went out, his long legs carrying him about the yard,
toward the beach. The air was glorious, a soft breeze blowing landward
from the ocean. He almost forgot his hunger in t