to-day, it will continue.

"For we conceive of Liberty in the statues we raise to her as a
beautiful woman, crowned, victorious, in bright armour and white robes,
a light in her uplifted hand--a serene, calm, conquering goddess. Oh,
the farce of it, oh, the folly of it! Liberty is NOT a crowned goddess,
beautiful, in spotless garments, victorious, supreme. Liberty is the Man
In the Street, a terrible figure, rushing through powder smoke, fouled
with the mud and ordure of the gutter, bloody, rampant, brutal, yelling
curses, in one hand a smoking rifle, in the other, a blazing torch.

"Freedom is NOT given free to any who ask; Liberty is not born of the
gods. She is a child of the People, born in the very height and heat of
battle, born from death, stained with blood, grimed with powder. And she
grows to be not a goddess, but a Fury, a fearful figure, slaying friend
and foe alike, raging, insatiable, merciless, the Red Terror."

Presley ceased speaking. Weak, shaking, scarcely knowing what he was
about, he descended from the stage. A prolonged explosion of applause
followed, the Opera House roaring to the roof, men cheering, stamping,
waving their hats. But it was not intelligent applause. Instinctively as
he made his way out, Presley knew that, after all, he had not once held
the hearts of his audience. He had talked as he would have written; for
all his scorn of literature, he had been literary. The men who listened
to him, ranchers, country people, store-keepers, attentive though they
were, were not once sympathetic. Vaguely they had felt that here was
something which other men--more educated--would possibly consider
eloquent. They applauded vociferously but perfunctorily, in order to
appear to understand.

Presley, for all his love of the people, saw clearly for one moment
that he was an outsider to their minds. He had not helped them nor their
cause in the least; he never would.

Disappointed, bewildered, ashamed, he made his way slowly from the Opera
House and stood on the steps outside, thoughtful, his head bent.

He had failed, thus he told himself. In that moment of crisis, that at
the time he believed had been an inspiration, he had failed. The people
would not consider him, would not believe that he could do them service.
Then suddenly he seemed to remember. The resolute set of his lips
returned once more. Pushing his way through the crowded streets, he went
on towards the stable where he had left his pon