ulminator, now a hunted wretch, with nothing,
apparently, to secure his triumph over all the prisons and scaffolds of
infuriate Europe except the revolver in his pocket and his readiness to
discharge it at a moment's notice into his own or any other head. Think
of him setting out to find a gentleman and a Christian in the multitude
of human wolves howling for his blood. Think also of this: that at the
very first essay he finds what he seeks, a veritable grandee of Spain,
a noble, high-thinking, unterrified, malice-void soul, in the guise--of
all masquerades in the world!--of a modern editor. The Anarchist wolf,
flying from the wolves of plutocracy, throws himself on the honor of
the man. The man, not being a wolf (nor a London editor), and therefore
not having enough sympathy with his exploit to be made bloodthirsty by
it, does not throw him back to the pursuing wolves--gives him, instead,
what help he can to escape, and sends him off acquainted at last with a
force that goes deeper than dynamite, though you cannot make so much of
it for sixpence. That righteous and honorable high human deed is not
wasted on Europe, let us hope, though it benefits the fugitive wolf
only for a moment. The plutocratic wolves presently smell him out. The
fugitive shoots the unlucky wolf whose nose is nearest; shoots himself;
and then convinces the world, by his photograph, that he was no
monstrous freak of reversion to the tiger, but a good looking young man
with nothing abnormal about him except his appalling courage and
resolution (that is why the terrified shriek Coward at him): one to
whom murdering a happy young couple on their wedding morning would have
been an unthinkably unnatural abomination under rational and kindly
human circumstances.

Then comes the climax of irony and blind stupidity. The wolves, balked
of their meal of fellow-wolf, turn on the man, and proceed to torture
him, after their manner, by imprisonment, for refusing to fasten his
teeth in the throat of the dynamiter and hold him down until they came
to finish him.

Thus, you see, a man may not be a gentleman nowadays even if he wishes
to. As to being a Christian, he is allowed some latitude in that
matter, because, I repeat, Christianity has two faces. Popular
Christianity has for its emblem a gibbet, for its chief sensation a
sanguinary execution after torture, for its central mystery an insane
vengeance bought off by a trumpery expiation. But there is a nobler an