"I have always thought of the spirit of things," he added, "until I met Paula Mantone. I would have forgotten everything for her beauty, but she remembered our souls.... And now, because I would have forgotten the bodies of these men Christonal sent me here to learn that. We are spirits and bodies, too, Lange. It takes a crowned head to hold to the two ends at once--God, hear 'em sing----" The ruffians always hushed and choked us when they sang. Something new about it this time, for Varsieff was seeing them across a red stream of their own blood. "I can't drive 'em into the fire-pits," he muttered. "Why, I'd rather wash and dress 'em. They've got the idea that I am to lead them home. I can't betray that--not even for the Cause!... I never saw it before. They are not herds, not groups--but monads--each a man----" "We've got to put through the big story," I said quietly. "Thirty thousand is cheap--our little planting out here is cheap, if we can give Russia the new heaven and the new earth--Russia--then America--then the world----" I was giving him back his own words. "Thirty thousand lives," he repeated. "Yes, the price is cheap--thirty thousand every day for awhile--your life and mine, Lange--a cheap price to pay for the glory we see in the days to come. But I can't kill these--I think Christonal knew it all the time----" "You aren't ready for work in the constructive end, if you falter here among the wreckers----" I said. I knew that no Cause had ever uncovered a more valuable servant than this same Varsieff, though badly out of hand just now. I wasn't making any effect upon him. He looked at me strangely. "That sounds true--exactly and unerringly true," he said wearily. There was no quarter possible now. "I remember your words in clubs and cabinets and in the ante-rooms of the dumas.... You weren't afraid of blood there, Varsieff." He winced. "They called you the 'Fire-eater,'" I added, never knowing when to stop. "It's just as straight to-day as it was when you talked there: 'The old civilisation must be washed clean with the blood of the new----'" His hand came up piteously. "But their hearts are turned homeward, Lange," he said. "Their eyes are building their homes all over again--eyes turned homeward over the mountains----" "Turned to God," I said reverently. "Yes, but taking my word--the word of Varsieff--that God is there----" "He is there." "But will He come to them at the last, Lange?... Will He show His face--so they will believe?... When they feel their death-wounds--the blood sliding out, warm and silent--the cold coming in--will they hold to what I said? Will He be there for them?" "You're shot up, old man, only a bit bewildered to-day. No one knows better than you how great emotional giving of one's self to Cause or Country makes death easy--and quickens the Soul." Varsieff was ashen. "I've got to eat all my words! Even you, bring back my words to me. I've talked too much.... Suppose I am a madman----?"