“Good!” He sat down and leaned forward. “Now,” he said, “hit me with the butt of your revolver. Here.” He laid his finger on his forehead just at the bottom of the hair. “Hit hard,” he concluded, “and when the train gets into the station put out for the American Embassy and stay there till I come. Hit! Hit hard!” The girl shrank back. “I can’t,” she breathed. “You must. You’ve got to have time to escape from the railway station, and this is the only thing that would explain my delay and lend artistic verisimilitude to a bald and unconvincing narrative, as our friend, the _Mikado_, once said. Don’t be afraid; my skull is thick, and won’t be seriously hurt. Quick! We are getting into the station. Think that I am General Somebodyoffski and hit--hit hard. Quick!” The girl’s eyes grew big with tears. “I did not think there lived such a man as you,” she breathed. “Now I understand why your great country is free. Such men as you must be free. Oh, God! Is there no other way?” “None. The train is stopping. Quick!” Despairingly, the girl glanced around. Then she lifted the heavy revolver and struck as Caruth had directed. Without a moan he sank back, unconscious, in his seat. For a moment Marie stood gazing at her handiwork. Then a great sob shook her frame, and she bent down and pressed her lips to the purpling wound. “Forgive, forgive!” she cried. “If it had been life alone---- Oh, love, forgive, forgive!” The next moment she was gone. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO It is one thing to embark on adventure and another thing to carry it through. Though the first step costs more than any other one step, it does not cost more than the aggregate of the rest, and certainly does not cost more than the period of suspense that inevitably comes in any prolonged enterprise. All of which serves as an introduction to the statement that though Florence began well, she soon sickened of her venture. The conditions were against her. She had always been used to a good share of the world’s comforts. Even in New York, hanging on the ragged edge of the bottomless pit, she had never been penniless, and had never held back from anything she wanted through fear of becoming penniless. Like a cat, she loved warmth and the cream of life. When she placed the red light in her port on the _Sea Spume_ and dropped over the side into the arms in which Wilkins willingly received her, she contemplated nothing more unpleasant than a sail by night over the dancing waves to a safe port. The danger that menaced her not being visible, she disregarded it; or felt it only as giving a zest to a romantic flight.