so advised her to smoke, saying that it was good for people who had
whims and fancies, but smoking did not appeal to her, and she never
envied the Spanish woman her eternal cigarette.

She felt as if she would like to sleep, sleep for an indefinite period.
She was wearied to death of The Cause, and the Brotherhood, with their
intrigues and plots and interminable cipher messages.

She had been three months in Barcelona, and now fully justified Emile's
name for her. Tragic as a veritable mask of Fate, she looked ten years
older than the girl he had met on the station platform.

The longer she worked for the Cause the more she realised that Anarchy
was no plaything for spare moments, but a juggling with Life and Death.

At first they had given her but little to do--a few documents to copy,
some cipher messages to carry. Then the demands upon her leisure had
become more frequent. She found she was expected to make no demur at
being sent for miles, and once or twice there had been dreadful
midnight excursions to a hut up in the mountains.

The realisation of the folly of trying to escape from the burden that
had been laid upon her affected her nerve and seat during her
performances in the ring.

For the first time she felt her courage failing her when she entered
Sobrenski's house in answer to his summons. When he had given her the
despatch she made an objection on the grounds that the time taken in
conveying it would absorb her few hours of rest.

"It's too far," she protested. "I can't go there to-day."

"Then you can go to-morrow," answered Sobrenski in the accents of
finality. He had never cared about the girl's inclusion in their
plots, and took his revenge in exacting from her considerably more than
his pound of flesh.

Moreover he suspected her of treachery, and disliked her for the
quickness of her wit in argument.

Even his unseeing eyes told him she looked both ill and haggard, but if
she were there, well, she must work like the rest of them.

Arithelli hesitated for a moment, and when she spoke for all her pluck
her voice was a little rough and uneven. "I'm tired of being an errand
boy!"

Sobrenski looked at her, drawing his eyebrows together. Everyone of
the band had a nickname for her, and his own very unpleasant one was
"Deadly Nightshade." Some of the others were "Sapho" and "Becky
Sharp," which latter Emile had also adopted as being particularly
appropriate.

"Oh, very well," he answe