ces half hid by the smoky
atmosphere. Mystic, dreamer, lunatic--what you will,--he held the men in
weird fascination. They crouched, rather than sat before him. Had he
spoken in whispers, not a word would have been lost. His eyes shone with
a new light, and his voice softened as he continued:

"We are on the verge of another battle in the great conflict over
the right to live. Battles without number have been fought in this
conflict--blood without stint has been poured upon its fields.--With
what result? Here, in this land of plenty, the hosts are gathering for
a contest of such magnitude that, compared to it, all former conflicts
will seem mere skirmishes. Why? Because the sword never has touched,
and never can touch, the soul of man--because blood not shed in
consecration cannot heal. The eyes of the world must look upon a
blameless death-devotion to a cause. If I am mad, it is a madness
learned of Christ. Are your lives so valuable that you fear to lose
them? Is death a terror to you who die daily? Humanity bleeds from
every pore--do you shudder at blood? Civilisation calls upon you, her
outcasts, for salvation. Will you answer her--you who, here in the City
of New York, see the rich digging a gulf between themselves and the
poor--a gulf that may be a grave for countless thousands--a trench for
oceans of blood that a few drops shed now may save? We must demonstrate
which side we are on--we must make a great spectacle! I want volunteers
for death--volunteers for the death that redeems!"

With hands spread out in appeal--the fine head thrown back--he stood
like the shade of some great Being encircled by the mists of unreality.

From out of the smoke there staggered and stumbled toward him a man who
grasped the outstretched hand--

"I volunteer!" he cried.

Schrieber's calm face bespoke a benediction.

"My brother," he answered, simply.

The recruit was Sandy McWhiffle.

I started to my feet with a cry of protest on my lips, but the great
smoke bank above seemed suddenly to descend and envelop me, choking and
stifling me. For a moment I fought it, gasping for breath, but only
drawing the foul air deeper down into my lungs. Then I remembered
nothing more. They said at the hospital it was nicotine poisoning.

V.

For some days--just how many I don't remember--I had been in the
condition which often follows sudden illness, when the mind is groping
about to connect things one with another, and to adjust relati