“There are but two real laws of man’s nature, hunger and love--all others change with time and progress. These are the higher laws, in fact they are the highest laws. The stupid conventions that superstition has built around them may hold back the weak, but the powerful have always defied them. Your brilliant exposition of the higher law in politics first set my mind to work, and led me to a complete emancipation from the slavery of conventionalism in which fools have held society for centuries. There are conventional laws and superstitions about the little ceremony called marriage cherished by the weak-minded. There is a higher law of nature. The brave live this life of daring freedom, while cowards cling to forms. Do I make myself clear?” “Perfectly so, you mottled leper. You think that because I am a preacher, I am a poltroon, and that you can play with me without danger to your skin. Well, I was a man before I was a preacher. There are some things deeper than the forms of religion, if you wish to push the higher law to its last application. You have found that quick in my soul, mine enemy! I have resigned my church--to kill you. There is not room for you and me on this earth”-- [Illustration: 0484] McLeod sprang to his feet, his soul chilled by the tone in which the threat was uttered. He started to call for help, and looked down the gleaming barrel of a revolver. “Move now or open your mouth, and I kill you instantly. Sit down. I give you five minutes to write your last message to this world.” McLeod sank into his seat trembling like a leaf, with the perspiration standing out on his forehead in cold beads. Now and then he glanced furtively at the stem face of blind fury towering over his crouching form. Unable to endure the terrible strain, he sank to the floor whining, slobbering, begging in abject cowardice for his life. He crawled toward the Preacher, reached out his hand and touched his foot. “My God, Doctor, you are mad. You will not commit murder. You are a minister of Jesus Christ. Have mercy. I am at your feet. Your wife is as pure as an angel. I only said what I did to torture you”-- “Get up you snake!” hissed the Preacher, stamping his body with all his might until McLeod screamed with pain and scrambled to his feet cowering and whining like a cur. “Finish your letter. You will never leave this room alive.” A long pitiful sob broke the stillness, and McLeod was looking into the Preacher’s face in vain for a ray of hope. Suddenly Gaston burst into the room trembling with excitement. “My God, Doctor, what does this mean?” he cried seizing the revolver. McLeod sprang toward Gaston, groaning and crawling toward his feet. “Save me Gaston,--the Doctor’s gone mad--he is about to kill me!” “Charlie, I must!” pleaded the Preacher.