now she was lying in her bed with the fan on the
pillow beside her!

How could she do it? That was what the girl asked herself while she lay
awake on her own bed. Would Ella not see, on the white pillow beside her
head, the crimson stains of the feathers that had been snatched out
of the dripping red hand of death, but the man who had not feared to
grapple with death itself in that hell which people called a paradise?

But the man, the man who had gripped death by the throat and had torn
the feathers from his grisly, fleshless fingers,--her imagination was
very vivid at night, especially after reading a thrilling chapter of
Hebrew massacre,--that man had talked with her upon such trifles
as books and plays, strange pageants enacted among paper and canvas
unrealities of life. She had actually been leaning against some of these
painted scenes while the man who had fought his way into the depths of
that forest which no white man but himself had yet penetrated,--the man
whose life had, day by day and night by night, been dependent upon the
accuracy of his rifle aim,--had talked with her.

That was really the sum of all her thoughts. She did not try to recall
the words that he had spoken; it was simply the figure of the man who
had been before her that now remained on her mind. She did not stop to
think whether or not he had spoken as a man with intellect would speak;
whether he had spoken as a man whose orthodoxy was beyond suspicion
would speak. The question of his orthodoxy, of his intellect (which may
be just the opposite), did not occur to her. All she felt was that she
had been talking face to face with a man.

So that the result of her evening's entertainment, after she had read
her inspiring chapter in the Bible and said her bedside prayer, she
might have defined in precisely the same words as she had spoken to
her friend Ella when Ella had asked her, immediately on entering the
carriage, what she thought of Herbert Courtland.

"He is the bravest man in the world at present."

She did not fall asleep for a considerable time.

CHAPTER XI.

I'M AFRAID THAT I MUST HAVE PRINCIPLE ON MY SIDE.

"It is quite ridiculous, besides being untrue," said Phyllis, when she
had read the article in the newspaper to which her father called her
attention one morning, a week after the criticism on "Cagliostro" had
appeared. The article was headed:

"DYNAMITE VERSUS EVANGELIZATION,"

and it came out in a weekly paper de