One must either be an autocrat and
slave-driver or a Nihilist out there, but here--they are mad, all of
them! They have just settled to draw lots to-morrow night. I wonder
who will have the 'honour' of becoming executioner? I suppose they
can't do it to-night because Poleski isn't here."

Arithelli shook her head.

"That is not the reason. They have given Emile other work to do in
Russia. He is leaving here very soon. I thought you knew."

"Who told you that Poleski is going away? It may not be true."

"Emile himself. Oh! it's true enough. I don't know when he will go.
He doesn't know himself, but soon."

"Will you trust me to take care of you when Poleski is gone?"

"I'll trust you always."

"Promise me you'll come away with me. If you care you'll come. I'll
give up the Cause for your sake. I've told you so in my letter and now
I say it again."

"So I've made you a traitor. Sobrenski was right."

"My sweet, how can I live with violence and death and misery since I
have known you? I want to get away from men and back to Nature to be
healed. It doesn't follow that because I have grown to hate some of
the revolutionist methods that I am against all their theories. I
believe they are right in sharing things, in fighting for those who are
trodden down by the rich, but you and I can still believe all that
without becoming inhuman. Think of Sobrenski. He's a werewolf, not a
man! Promise me that you'll come soon. Let me take you away before
they make you one of their 'angels of vengeance,' as they call these
women of the revolution."

Excitement and the feverish devil of consumption had turned his blood
to fire. He would take no denial, pay no heed to Arithelli's
entreaties for time to think, and to consult Emile.

For once he forgot to be gentle, and dragged her head back roughly,
whispering passionate words, his face pressed against her own. For a
moment he saw no longer the goddess on her ivory throne, but a woman of
flesh and blood, warm, living, and fragrant and to be desired after a
man's fashion.

Arithelli closed her eyes and leant back, yielding herself to his
caresses. The pressure of his hand across her throat hurt her, but in
some strange way it also gave her pleasure. Love, the schoolmaster,
again stood by her side teaching her the lesson learnt sooner or later
by all women, that pain at the hands of one beloved is a thing close
akin to joy. She felt incapable of any struggl