ey produced good results.

He would give her plenty of music with which to occupy herself till the
time came when she would be fully occupied in serving the Cause. As he
had said, there were no other female conspirators in their circle.
Sobrenski, the red-haired leader, detested women, and thought them all
fools, who generally added the sin of treachery to their foolishness.
Emile himself had taken no interest in any woman since he had lived in
Barcelona. He too had found them treacherous. Since he had lost his
little childish goddess, Marie Roumanoff, he had had no desire to play
the role of lover. If he wanted companionship he preferred men, for as
companions women bored him.

But Arithelli was not a woman--yet. She appeared able to keep own
counsel, to do as she was told, and to judge by the way she rode, her
courage would be capable of standing a severe test. Also it had
occurred to him that she possessed the art of being a good comrade. It
would amuse him to watch her develop. At present she was full of
illusions about the charm of life in general. Everything for her
showed rose-tinged. Well, it was not his business to dispel illusions.
At present it was all "_Le Reve_," but after the dream would come
awakening. He took care to leave her very little alone during the
first few days, and arranged her time according to his own ideas, and
escorted her backwards and forwards from her rehearsals at the
Hippodrome.

When she was free he took her for long walks up the hills where they
could look down upon the gorgeous city, which, as far as natural
loveliness went, might have been compared to Paradise rather than to
the Hell to which he invariably likened it.

The beautiful harbour, the dry air, the sunlight and splashes of vivid
colour--everything was intoxicating to her. She said very little, but
Emile felt that she missed nothing, and lacked nothing in appreciation.
For himself the place must be always hateful, for he was in exile.
What was the golden sunlight to him when he longed for the snows and
frozen wastes of Russia, that sombre country so like the hearts of
those by whom it is peopled.

One day he took her for an excursion to Montserrat, three hours'
journey from Barcelona. They left the train at Monistrol, and started
to walk through the vineyards and pine woods towards the famous
mountain that towers up to heaven in grey rugged terraces of rock. All
round, for miles, were undulating waves o