Everyone laughed, except Sergius Thord. He had fallen into a heavy, brooding silence, his head sunk on his breast, his wild hair falling forward like a mane, and his right hand clenched and resting on the table. “Sergius!” called Lotys. He did not answer. “He is in one of his far-away moods,”--said one of the men next to Axel Regor,--“It is best not to disturb him.” Paul Zouche, however, had no such scruples. “Sergius!” he cried,--“Come out of your cloud of meditation! Drink to the health of our three new comrades!” All the members of the company filled their glasses, and Thord, hearing the noise and clatter, looked up with a wild stare. “What are you doing?” he asked slowly;--“I thought some one spoke of Cain killing Abel!” “It was I,” said Graub--“I spoke of it--irreverently, I fear,--but the story itself is irreverent. The notion that ‘God,’ should like roast meat is the height of blasphemy!” Zouche burst into a violent fit of laughter. But Thord went on talking in a low tone, as though to himself. “Cain killing Abel!” he repeated--“Always the same horrible story is repeated through history--brother against brother,--blood crying out for blood--life torn from the weak and helpless body--all for what? For a little gold,--a passing trifle of power! Cain killing Abel! My God, art Thou not yet weary of the old eternal crime!” He spoke in a semi-whisper which thrilled through the room. A momentary hush prevailed, and then Lotys called again, her voice softened to a caressing sweetness. “Sergius!” He started, and shook himself out of his reverie this time. Raising his hand, he passed it in a vague mechanical way across his brow as though suddenly wakened from a dream. “Yes, yes! Let us drink to our three new comrades,” he said, and rose to his feet. “To your health, friends! And may you all stand firm in the hour of trial!” All the company sprang up and drained their glasses, and when the toast was drunk and they were again seated, Pasquin Leroy asked if he might be allowed to return thanks. “I do not know,” he said with a courteous air, “whether it is permissible for a newly-enrolled associate of this Brotherhood to make a speech on the first night of his membership,--but after the cordial welcome I and my comrades, strangers as we are, have received at your hands, I should like to say a few words--if, without breaking any rules of the Order, I may do so.” “Hear, hear!” shouted Zouche, who had been steadily drinking for the last few moments,--“Speak on, man! Whoever heard of a dumb Socialist! Rant--rant! Rant and rave!--as I do, when the fit is on me! Do I not, Thord? Do I not move you even to tears?” “And laughter!” put in Zegota. “Hold your tongue, Zouche! No other man can talk at all, if you once begin!” Zouche laughed, and drained his glass.