Did they laugh at him and at her, those Caliban spirits of the universe, that with grim and cruel humor are forever setting human purpose awry and sending it, lop-sided and ludicrous, far aside its mark? Did they laugh and cheer and find pleasure in that struggle, the sure result of the innate upward-strivingness of the human soul, like human beings around a cock-pit betting upon which instinct, which spirit, which physique, shall prove the stronger? Or, perhaps, was Caliban pushed aside by some Angel of the Sword, infinitely just and infinitely merciful, that with stern lips whispered to pitying eyes, “No, let them struggle, for only by struggling, even to the uttermost, can their souls grow!” Softly Rhoda came near, hesitatingly put forth one hand and let it rest for an instant upon his arm. At her touch he straightened up and unconsciously one hand sought the place upon his arm where hers had lain. “I don’t believe, dear, it will be forever. I don’t believe it will be very much longer.” “What do you mean, Rhoda?” he cried, springing up. “Do you really think there is hope for us?” “Yes, Jeff, I do. But I don’t suppose you’ll see it as I do. It’s only that I think,” she was speaking timidly, and yet with a grave eagerness of voice and manner, “and so do a good many of us, that slavery can’t last much longer. We feel sure that its end is bound to come, in one way or another, and that before long. And when slavery is swept away, Jeff, and the whole country is clean of it, then there will be no gulf between us!” Her serious eyes were luminous as they met his unbelieving ones and in her face was the subdued glow of one who looks afar off upon a land of promise and knows that toward it his feet are set. Love and disbelief were mingled in the somber countenance he bent upon her. “No, Rhoda, I do not agree with you. And much as I love you, sweet, I would not, if I could, purchase our happiness at such a cost. I would not, if I could, be such a traitor to the South. But I shall always love you, dear heart, and I shall always hope that you will yet be mine.” He held her hand tenderly for a moment in both of his, pressed it to his lips, bowed gravely, and left the room. CHAPTER XXIII “It’s going to be a good speech, Horace, and it will surely attract attention,” said Rhoda Ware to her counsel on the day before the opening of her trial.