reover, the genius of Basterga had imposed itself upon him as that of
a man unlikely to fail. But some resistance there must be, some
bloodshed--for the town held many devoted men; one hour at least of
butchery, and that followed, he shuddered to think it, by more than one
hour of excess, of cruelty, of rapine. From such things the captured
cities of that day rarely escaped. In all that happened, the resistance
and the peril, he must, he knew, show himself; he must take his part and
run his risk if he would not be known for what he was, if he would not
leave a name that men would spit on!

Strangely enough it was the moment of discovery and his conduct in that
moment--it was the anticipation of this, that weighed most heavily on
his guilty mind as he sat in his parlour, his hour of retiring long
past, his household in bed. The city slept round him; how long would it
sleep? And when it awoke, how long dared he, how long would it be
natural for him to ignore the first murmur, the succeeding outcry, the
rising alarm? It was not his cue to do overmuch, to precipitate
discovery, or to assume at once the truth to be the truth. But on the
other hand he must not be too backward.

Try as he would he could not divert his thoughts from this. He saw
himself skulking in his house, listening with a white face to the rush
of armed men along the street. He heard the tumult rising on all sides,
and saw himself stand, guilty and irresolute, between hearth and door,
uncertain if the time had come to go forth. Finally, and before he had
made up his mind to go out, he fancied himself confronted by an entering
face, and in an instant detected. And this it was, this initial
difficulty, oddly enough--and not the subsequent hours of horror,
confusion and danger, of dying men and wailing women--that rode his
mind, dwelt on him and shook his nerves as the crisis approached.

One consolation he had, and one only; but a measureless one. Basterga
had kept his word. He was cured. Six hours earlier he had taken the
_remedium_ according to the directions, and with every hour that had
elapsed since he had felt new life course through his veins. He had had
no return of pain, no paroxysm; but a singular lightness of body,
eloquent of the change wrought in him and the youth and strength that
were to come, had done what could be done to combat the terrors of the
soul, natural in his situation. Pale he was, despite the potion; in
spite of it he trembled an