Could he accept the sacrifice this white soul wished to make for him? Could he aid and abet her in raising up for herself so much undeserved obloquy? Could he help her to become _Anathema maranatha_ among her sister women? Even if she felt brave enough to try the experiment herself for humanity’s sake, was it not his duty as a man to protect her from her own sublime and generous impulses? Is it not for that in part that nature makes us virile? We must shield the weaker vessel. He was flattered not a little that this leader among women should have picked him out for herself among the ranks of men as her predestined companion in her chosen task of emancipating her sex. And he was thoroughly sympathetic (as every good man must needs be) with her aims and her method. Yet, still he hesitated. Never before could he have conceived such a problem of the soul, such a moral dilemma possible. It rent heart and brain at once asunder. Instinctively he felt to himself he would be doing wrong should he try in any way to check these splendid and unselfish impulses which led Herminia to offer herself willingly up as a living sacrifice on behalf of her enslaved sisters everywhere. Yet the innate feeling of the man, that ’tis his place to protect and guard the woman, even from her own higher and purer self, intervened to distract him. He couldn’t bear to feel he might be instrumental in bringing upon his pure Herminia the tortures that must be in store for her; he couldn’t bear to think his name might be coupled with hers in shameful ways, too base for any man to contemplate.