“One had always hoped and felt,” he went on with anger stifling his voice, “that this noise and vanity, this catchpenny patriotism, this lipservice to the majority, this bag of cheap tricks, don’t really count--in the sum of things. But they do. Hellington teaches one that. The malign force that lured the Hun to his doom is now about to deal with what remains of civilization.” “But why? ... but why? ... but why?” “The ambition of Saul Hartz is insensate. Like all of his kind before him, he doesn’t know when to stop. By that sin fell the angels. Cheap, debased, vulgarized he may be, but he is still Lucifer, Son of the Morning, in up-to-date clothes.” Helen, while she listened, was torn with pain. She loved this man. This creature of intuitions, now broken and tormented, had grown more than ever dear in the course of four terrible days. The desire to help him had never been so strong. He could read that in her compressed lips, her burning eyes. But very gentleman as he was, now the case was altered, now he could no longer count on the integrity of the central forces, he was ready, almost eager in his own despite to release her. One thing was now clear. They must come to a decision. Again in the inward ear of Helen sounded that voice grim with menace: Under which king, Bezonian? To serve both was now impossible. She didn’t hesitate to tell this stricken, perhaps mortally stricken, gladiator, that she was wholly his. Yet no longer self-secure, a tide of doubt swept his mind. “Take a little time,” he said. “There is your own life to think of. It may be--I don’t know--that I am no more than a half-crazy egoist; in any case, I have no right to involve you in what may prove the ruin of all our hopes. You have made a position for yourself. Something is due to your career. I have no right to drag you down, I have no right to sink your fine abilities in a cause which in my heart I feel to be already lost.” Not only the simplicity of the man, but his honesty in this hour of desolating weakness wrung her with pain. “I ask no more than to serve you in any way I can,” she said, her face raised to his. “I cannot take pity,” he said. “Even though it is a gift which ennobles the giver. Too much is at stake for us--and for the world in which we live.” With more than a lover’s tenderness which made her whole being quiver like the rays of light upon the path before them, he took her in his arms and pressed kisses upon her forehead and lips. In the next moment, even as she gave herself up body and soul to his embrace, he was able to fight his weakness again. With a shudder he let her go. “Don’t let me drag you over the precipice,” he said. “Nothing now may be able to save me. Therefore, if you still have the power, stand clear.” XXII