lowing of their tears. They molded men's strength
into weakness with the magic caressing of their sex. They promised and
disappointed, flattered and allured, captured and despised. Their
curiosity was insatiable to possess themselves of secrets, which were no
longer valued the moment they were divulged. Their little teasing hands,
so destructive and lovable, had commenced the debacle of every human
greatness. Throughout the ages, their coaxing, pleading voices could be
heard wheedling men's hearts to the same purpose. "Tell me, I pray thee,
wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherein thou mightest be bound to
afflict thee." The strength of men had eternally roused their
resentment, whether they were the Delilahs of long ago or the Maisies of
a modern generation. The goal of all their passion, even when it was
unselfish, was to bind.

He had nearly been bound, but he had escaped. At the thought that he
had escaped, he felt a flood of exultant joy sweep through him. He
smiled, believing he had discovered a humorous and more human motive for
the exhausting piety of the anchorites. It wasn't their religious
self-abnegation that had made them flee to scorched river-beds and
desert hiding-places; it was their triumphant satisfaction at having
tantalized and eluded feminine pursuit. They fled in order that they
might possess, not deny themselves. As they became more emaciated and
scarred and as their needs grew less, they listened. What they heard was
ample compensation for all that they had foresworn at the hands of life.
Far blown from distant haunts of habitation came a sound which in their
ears was sweetest music: day and night the painful dragging of chains
and the groan of men toiling in servitude to women.

"The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!" When the last sleepy caress had
been given, all men who lacked the caution of the anchorite, were sooner
or later destined to hear that cry.

How much nobler men had been in a womanless world! Some of them had had
to become womanless before they could be noble. Pollock plunging to his
death from the clouds, like an eagle struck by a thunderbolt! Lord Dawn
with the smile of calm remembrance on his lips, purged of all his
fruitless sex-contentions, lying white and quiet beneath the crack and
spatter of exploding shells! Braithwaite, the ex-valet, who had proved
himself an aristocrat in courage! And he himself, thinking only of duty,
with every jealous ambition laid aside!