ut the slightest sense of alarm. Why
you, in your working among the poor, run the danger of scarlet fever and
small-pox every other day in your life, and you never think about it.
How many public men have died by the assassin's hand in my days? Abraham
Lincoln, Marshal Prim, President Garfield, Lord Frederick Cavendish--two
or three more; and how many young ladies have died of scarlet fever?'

'But one can't take any precautions against scarlet fever--except to
keep away from where it may be, and not to do what one must feel to be a
duty.'

'Exactly,' he said eagerly; 'there is where it is.'

'You can't,' she urged, 'have police protection against typhus or
small-pox.'

'Nor against assassination,' he said gravely. 'At least, not against the
only sort of assassins who are in the least degree dangerous. I want you
to understand this quite clearly,' he said, turning to her suddenly with
an earnestness which had something tender in it. 'I want you to know
that I am not rash or foolhardy or careless about my own life. I have
only too much reason for wanting to live--aye, even for clinging to
life! But, as a matter of calculation, there is no precaution to be
taken in such a case which can be of the slightest value as a genuine
protection. An enemy determined enough will get at you in your bedroom
as you sleep some night--you can't have a cordon of police around your
door. Even if you did have a police cordon round you when you took your
walks abroad, it wouldn't be of the slightest use against the bullet of
the assassin firing from the garret window.'

'This is appalling,' Helena said, turning pale. 'I now understand why
some women have such a horror of anything like political strife. I
wonder if I should lose courage if someone in whom I was interested were
in serious danger?'

'You would never lose your courage,' the Dictator said firmly. 'You
would fear nothing so much as that those you cared for should not prove
themselves equal to the duty imposed upon them.'

'I used to think so once,' she said. 'I begin to be afraid about myself
now.'

'Well, in this case,' he interposed quickly, 'there does not seem to be
any real apprehension of danger. I am afraid,' he added, with a certain
bitterness, 'my enemies in Gloria do not regard me as so very formidable
a personage as to make it worth their while to pay for the cost of my
assassination. I don't fancy they are looking out for my speedy return
to Gloria.'

'My f