deceived by them; the sheep generally recognise
the wolf however carefully fitted the sheepskin under which he hides,
though the onlookers may not; and though not always be able to drive him
from the flock! The outer world may be misled; we, who stand shoulder to
shoulder with them, know them; they are not many; neither are they
new. They are one of the oldest survivals, and among the most primitive
relics in the race. They are as old as Loki among the gods, as Lucifer
among the Sons of the Morning, as the serpent in the Garden of Eden, as
pain and dislocation in the web of human life.

Such women are as old as that first primitive woman who, when she went
with her fellows to gather wood for the common household, put grass in
the centre of the bundle that she might appear to carry as much as they,
yet carry nothing; she is as old as the first man who threw away his
shield in battle, and yet, when it was over, gathered with the victors
to share the spoils, as old as cowardice and lust in the human and
animal world; only to cease from being when, perhaps, an enlarged and
expanded humanity shall have cast the last slough of its primitive skin.

Every army has its camp-followers, not among its accredited soldiers,
but who follow in its train, ready to attack and rifle the fallen on
either side. To lookers on, they may appear soldiers; but the soldier
knows who they are. At the Judean supper there was one Master, and to
the onlooker there may have seemed twelve apostles; in truth only twelve
were of the company, and one was not of it. There has always been this
thirteenth figure at every sacramental gathering, since the world began,
wherever the upholders of a great cause have broken spiritual bread; but
it may be questioned whether in any instance this thirteenth figure
has been able to destroy, or even vitally to retard, any great human
movement. Judas could hang his Master by a kiss; but he could not
silence the voice which for a thousand years rang out of that Judean
grave. Again and again, in social, political, and intellectual
movements, the betrayer betrays;--and the cause marches on over the body
of the man.

There are women, as there are men, whose political, social,
intellectual, or philanthropic labours are put on, as the harlot puts
on paint, and for the same purpose: but they can no more retard the
progress of the great bulk of vital and sincere womanhood, than the
driftwood on the surface of a mighty river ca