e it! The issue
is plain enough."

The words bit into Reist's heart. He sat in gloomy silence. From afar
off he seemed to hear the battle-cry of his beloved soldiers, the
thunder of hoofs, the flashing steel, the glory of the charge thrilled
his blood. There was patriotism indeed--there, where the lances
dripped red and the bullets flew. And he, Nicholas of Reist, sat
skulking in the back room of a doubtful _cafe_, safely out of harm's
reach, talking treason with one who had ever been the foremost of his
country's enemies.

"You bought Metzger," he said, "and the people cast him out. You may
buy me, and yet the people will not accept your terms. They will not
have Russians in authority over them. The hatred of your country is a
religion with them."

"They believe in you as they would believe in no other man," Domiloff
answered. "You can make the situation clear to them. In your heart you
know that it is their only salvation."

"They may save their skins," Reist admitted, "but after all life is a
short thing. It is better to die like gods than to live like slaves."

Domiloff shook his head.

"My friend," he said, "there is but one life that we know anything of,
and it should not be lightly thrown away. You can save Theos if you
will. Supposing, however, that you are obstinate--that you cling to
your ancient prejudices--well, what will you do then? Consider your
position. You have quarrelled with the King. Your place in the army
has gone, you have surrendered your sword. How can you ever show
yourself in Theos again, who lingered here in the hour of battle? Be
wise, my friend. Before you there is but one possible course. Take it.
The day will come when every man who calls himself a Thetian will
bless your name."

"Or curse it!" Reist muttered.

"Curse it, indeed," Domiloff answered, "if you play the coward. It is
the hour now for a strong man to rise. You are that man. Ughtred of
Tyrnaus, whom you call your king, is even now forging the fetters to
lead Theos into slavery. It is for you to thrust him aside and save
your people."

"His is the nobler way," Reist cried, bitterly. "Domiloff, I can
listen to you no longer. I am not the man you seek. My feet are not
used to these tortuous ways. I will ask the King's pardon. He will
give me back my sword, and I can at least find a glorious death."

"You can fight then for a King who has deprived you of your sword?"
Domiloff whispered. "You can forgive him the insult