at hog!"

It was Basterga's turn to shake his head. "He is not one to forget," he
said gravely. "I fear you will hear of that again, Messer Blondel. I
fear it will make trouble for you. But if these will not, is there any
man in Geneva, any man you can name, who would give his life for you?"

"Do men give life so easily?" Blondel answered, moving painfully in his
chair.

"Yet you will give yours for them! You will give yours! And who will be
a ducat the better?"

"I shall at least die for freedom," the Syndic muttered, gnawing his
moustache.

"A word!"

"For the religion, then."

"It is that which men make it!" the scholar retorted. "There have been
good men of all religions, though we dare not say as much in public, or
in Geneva. 'Tis not the religion. 'Tis the way men live it! Was John
Bernardino of Assisi, whom some call St. Francis, a worse man than
Arnold of Brescia, the Reformer? Or is your Beza a better man than
Messer Francis of Sales? Or would the heavens fall if Geneva embraced
the faith of the good Archbishop of Milan? Words, Messer Blondel,
believe me, words!"

"Yet men die for them!"

"Not wise men. And when you have died for them, who will thank you?" The
Syndic groaned. "Who will know, or style you martyr?" Basterga continued
forcibly. "Baudichon, whom you have called a fat hog? He will sit in
your seat. Petitot--he said but a little while ago that he would buy
this house if he lived long enough."

"He did?" The Syndic came to his feet as if a spring had raised him.

"Certainly. And he is a rich man, you know."

"May the Bise search his bones!" Blondel cried, trembling with fury. For
this was the realisation of his worst fears. Petitot to live in his
house, lie warm in his bed, sneer at his memory across the table that
had been his, rule in the Council where he had been first! Petitot, that
miserable crawler who had clogged his efforts for years, who had shared,
without deserving, his honours, who had spied on him and carped at him
day by day and hour by hour! Petitot to succeed him! To be all and own
all, and sun himself in the popular eye, and say "Geneva, it is I!"
While he, Blondel, lay rotting and forgotten, stark, beneath snow and
rain, winter wind and summer drought!

Perish Geneva first! Perish friend and foe alike!

The Syndic wavered. His hand shook, his thin dry cheek burned with
fever, his lips moved unceasingly. Why should he die? They would not die
for him. Nay, they would