For the first three miles still the bare, treeless plain, of coarse grass, in undulations like the waves of a dirty gray-green sea suddenly solidified, and overblown with dust. But on the western horizon was a dark purple line which, as they approached it, showed itself to be the edge of the huge black forest, stretching for miles and miles. Straight into the trees led the white ribbon of road. First there were birch trees, light and fanciful, a wood full of sunshine and wild-flowers. But in another mile or so their place was taken by the black firs, the straight, unbending shafts of the dim mysterious pines. Still, the forest was not here so deep. Glades intervened and broke the monotony. After a while they came out upon a large clearing, whereon was built a prosperous-looking village, with its church and school: just beyond it, the park gates of Nicolashof. Max opened them, and the tarantasse shot lightly up the well-kept road, and came to a standstill before the door of a long, low house, built of wood, but massive and comfortable-looking. Felix's face, as he threw the reins to Max and alighted from his carriage, bore a look of preoccupation. For several months there had hung over his head the malign shadow of the Brotherhood. The order sent to him to remove the Governor was, of course, merely a pretext for his own murder. Cravatz knew well that Felix would not, at the command of any secret society, assassinate his friend. But after the lapse of the appointed time, Cravatz would be justified in accomplishing the murder of Felix himself. That the sinister order should have been conveyed to him was a part of the policy of the Brotherhood. They knew that the young man had thrown off their influence. To them he was a renegade, though he had not, by any overt action, proved himself so. As he went about at all hours, quite fearlessly, he could have been shot many times over by some lurking conspirator with practical certainty of immunity. But the Brotherhood knew its own business. It had to keep together a number of desperate men, of all nationalities, in faithful subservience. The way to do this was by fear, the fear of a vengeance that could not fail to fall upon the traitor; and it is well known that there is one sort of fear which more than any other will weaken the courage, even of a strong man, and wear down the resolution even of the most determined. It is the policy of the Sword of Damocles. They worked by means of the threat of a fate that never failed to overtake, perhaps sooner, perhaps later, but certainly: the threat of a concealed power always on the watch. After a few weeks the strongest nerves are frayed by these tactics. A message is received; the victim disregards it. Days pass; nothing happens. Then, one day, upon dressing-table, or pillow, or through the post, there is some small reminder of the existence of the deadly machinery which can compel obedience.