“She is here, Arnold,” he answered, “because the last act of terrorism has brought her. Sanson’s reason has left him, and he has flung his net wide over London for victims. He has gathered everyone: morons, Christians, criminals, suspects. She taught her children fairy stories. The inspectors had long suspected it, and they terrified the little girl into admission by threatening to kill the mother. They were then adjudged morons. The mother pleaded to be allowed to accompany them to the table, alleging that her father had been color-blind. Her prayer was granted; she is going, Arnold; we all are going—” “No,” said the old bishop in a regretful tone, “not one of us is going. You see,” he added in explanation, “the Russians are in Stockholm, and it will not be long before they arrive in London to free the world. That is why Sanson lost his self-control. He knows. He wants to finish his enemies at home before they come.” “How do you know?” demanded David, while everyone grew still and listened. “It is given to me to know,” said Bishop Alfred simply, beaming and rubbing his hands. “I should like to have followed my dear master, the Lord Bishop of London, to the fagots, but none of us will go to the tables now, and we shall all have our two names again.” David drew me aside. “Arnold,” he said, “this situation would have robbed stronger men of their wits. I am afraid that our case is hopeless. One of the Guard, who knows me, has told me that Sanson is preparing for a holocaust of victims tomorrow, to celebrate his coup. He will stop at nothing to appease his blood thirst. Arnold, all our people know who you are. For their sake you must lead and show them how to die, as the first Christians died. It is hard, my dear boy—” I knew he was not thinking of death, but of my tragedy. “Your capture has rendered our plans abortive,” he went on. “But still there may be some hope unguessed by us. Unto the last we will not impugn God’s power. Now, my friends,” he added, turning toward the crowd, which circulated in the vault slowly, always following me, “let us show the Guard where our strength lies.” In the gloom of the vast vault, above the howling of the dogs, the hymn was raised, old Bishop Alfred leading, in a voice singularly sweet, although in speech the tones were broken. All kneeled.