me some champagne."

Sergius--wondering, as much as the condition of his mind, possessed by
one idea, would allow--filled his friend's glass. Anthony began to eat,
with a well-assumed hunger. Sergius scarcely touched food, but drank a
good deal of wine. The hands of the big oaken-cased clock that stood in
a far corner of the room crawled slowly upon their round, recurring
tour. Anthony's eyes were often upon them, then moved with a swift
directness that was akin to passion to the face of Sergius, which was
always strangely rigid, like the painted face of a mask.

"I sat by a woman to-day," he said presently, "sat by her in an attic
that looked on to a narrow street full of rain, and watched her die."

"This morning?"

"Yes."

"And now she's been out of the world seven or eight hours. Lucky woman!"

"Ah, Sergius, but the mischief, the horror of it was that she wasn't
ready to go, not a bit ready."

Sergius suddenly smiled, a straight, glaring smile, over the sparkling
champagne that he was lifting to his lips.

"Yes; it's devilish bad for a woman or a--man to be shot into another
world before they're prepared," he said. "It must be--devilish bad."

"And how can we know that any one is thoroughly prepared?"

Sergius' smile developed into a short laugh.

"It's easier to be certain who isn't than who is," he said.

The eyes of Anthony fled to the clock face mechanically and returned.

"Death terrified me to-day, Sergius," he said; "and it struck me that
the most awful power that God has given to man is the power of setting
death--like a dog--at another man."

Sergius swallowed all the wine in his glass at a gulp. He was no longer
smiling. His hand went up to his left side.

"It may be awful," he rejoined; "but it's grand. By Heaven! it's
magnificent."

He got up, as if excited, and moved about the room, while Anthony went
on pretending to eat. After a minute or two Sergius sat down again.

"Power of any kind is a grand thing," he said.

"Only power for good."

"You're bound to say that; you're a parson."

"I only say what I really feel; you know that, Serge."

"Ah, you don't understand."

Anthony looked at him with a sudden, strong significance.

"Part of a parson's profession--the most important part--is to
understand men who aren't parsons."

"You think you understand men?"

"Some men."

"Me, for instance?"

The question came abruptly, defiantly. Anthony seemed glad to answer it.

"Wel