otherhood must do once a year; and now I must
retrace my steps. I feel this new rebellion is a call to me. Listen, my
new found friend," and he peered into my face. "I left the world two
years ago. I could see that a change in great human conditions was
inevitable. I was what you call a labor leader. I went into a monastery
for two purposes. I can confess to you. It is safe, as we will never
meet again, and all ideas of justice will upend in the coming cataclysm.
Listen I say," and he gripped my wrist with a vice-like clutch of his
bony fingers. "I went into a monastery to escape the suspicion that I
had removed one whom we felt would bring much unhappiness upon the
earth. I went into a monastery to think. The turmoil of a busy worker's
life gave little opportunity for serious thought. I felt the day was
coming when the workers of the world would rise. I wanted to study the
proposition and its possibilities with all the clearness of vision that
the calmness of a monastery could give. I feel now that the day is
coming fast. It is near. All the signs of the approaching storm are
being manifested. I am ready.

"Some clear-visioned people in high office saw the portents in the sky
and feared the toppling of the thrones, so threw this war into the ring
to give the toilers opportunity for their heated passions, but this war
will be like blood to a tiger, it will quicken up the fighting spirit of
the animal, and on those who forced this war it will recoil with awful
effect. They saw the labor storm approach and put off the evil day. It
was like neglecting to physic the human body--the longer deferred, the
worse the disease.

"I am going back again," he continued. "You had better go on into
France. Your trouble will be to cross the Rhine."

He paused awhile and looked pityingly at me.

"Alas!" he continued. "You're a poor fool in these wild parts with only
your English and your bad French."

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and sketched a rough map upon
it.

"You can cross the Rhine," he went on, "just here at Neuwied, it is but
a mile along this road, then you go directly west to the Coblenz-Treves
Road, which follows the Mozelle. That road will take you to Luxembourg;
but keep away from Coblenz. They tell me at the farmhouse that it is
full of wounded soldiers and others are coming in by the Treves railway
that skirts the road you will take. Beyond the Rhine there is much
danger to you, but take this," and he w