“I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech than Jesus and all His saints put together.” He was aware that the knitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again as before. “But he must have meant to do it anyhow,” continued Oliver. “How do they know he was a Catholic?” asked the girl again. “There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on his God.” “And nothing more is known?” “Nothing more. He was well dressed, though.” Oliver leaned back a little wearily and closed his eyes; his arm still throbbed intolerably. But he was very happy at heart. It was true that he had been wounded by a fanatic, but he was not sorry to bear pain in such a cause, and it was obvious that the sympathy of England was with him. Mr. Phillips even now was busy in the next room, answering the telegrams that poured in every moment. Caldecott, the Prime Minister, Maxwell, Snowford and a dozen others had wired instantly their congratulations, and from every part of England streamed in message after message. It was an immense stroke for the Communists; their spokesman had been assaulted during the discharge of his duty, speaking in defence of his principles; it was an incalculable gain for them, and loss for the Individualists, that confessors were not all on one side after all. The huge electric placards over London had winked out the facts in Esperanto as Oliver stepped into the train at twilight. “_Oliver Brand wounded.... Catholic assailant.... Indignation of the country.... Well-deserved fate of assassin_.” He was pleased, too, that he honestly had done his best to save the man. Even in that moment of sudden and acute pain he had cried out for a fair trial; but he had been too late. He had seen the starting eyes roll up in the crimson face, and the horrid grin come and go as the hands had clutched and torn at his throat. Then the face had vanished and a heavy trampling began where it had disappeared. Oh! there was some passion and loyalty left in England! His mother got up presently and went out, still without a word; and Mabel turned to him, laying a hand on his knee. “Are you too tired to talk, my dear?” He opened his eyes. “Of course not, my darling. What is it?” “What do you think will be the effect?” He raised himself a little, looking out as usual through the darkening windows on to that astonishing view. Everywhere now lights were glowing, a sea of mellow moons just above the houses, and above the mysterious heavy blue of a summer evening. “The effect?” he said. “It can be nothing but good. It was time that something happened. My dear, I feel very downcast sometimes, as you know. Well, I do not think I shall be again. I have been afraid sometimes that we were losing all our spirit, and that the old Tories were partly right when they prophesied what Communism would do. But after this---” “Well?”