you.  I am giving you up....  Oh, my darling—­you will never know how hard it is!...  But go!  Your life has been sad.  You have lost so much.  I feel in my woman’s heart what will be—­if only you’ll change—­if you see God in this as I see.  Promise me.  Love that which you hated.  Prove for yourself what I believe.  Trust me—­promise me...  Then—­oh, I know God will send you back to me!”

He fell upon his knees before her to bury his face in her lap.  His whole frame shook.  His hands plucked at her dress.  A low sob escaped him.

“Lenore,” he whispered, brokenly, “I can’t see God in this—­for me!...  I can’t promise!”

CHAPTER XXI

Thirty masked men sat around a long harvest mess-table.  Two lanterns furnished light enough to show a bare barnlike structure, the rough-garbed plotters, the grim set of hard lips below the half-masks, and big hands spread out, ready to draw from the hat that was passing.

The talk was low and serious.  No names were spoken.  A heavy man, at the head of the table, said:  “We thirty, picked men, represent the country.  Let each member here write on his slip of paper his choice of punishment for the I.W.W.’s—­death or deportation....”

The members of the band bent their masked faces and wrote in a dead silence.  A noiseless wind blew through the place.  The lanterns flickered; huge shadows moved on the walls.  When the papers had been passed back to the leader he read them.

“Deportation,” he announced.  “So much for the I.W.W. men....  Now for the leader....  But before we vote on what to do with Glidden let me read an extract from one of his speeches.  This is authentic.  It has been furnished by the detective lately active in our interest.  Also it has been published.  I read it because I want to bring home to you all an issue that goes beyond our own personal fortunes here.”

Leaning toward the flickering flare of the lantern, the leader read from a slip of paper:  “If the militia are sent out here to hinder the I.W.W. we will make it so damned hot for the government that no troops will be able to go to France....  I don’t give a damn what this country is fighting for....  I am fighting for the rights of labor....  American soldiers are Uncle Sam’s scabs in disguise.”

The deep, impressive voice ended.  The leader’s huge fist descended upon the table with a crash.  He gazed up and down the rows of sinister masked figures.  “Have you anything to say?”

“No,” replied one.

“Pass the slips,” said another.

And then a man, evidently on in years, for his hair was gray and he looked bent, got up.  “Neighbors,” he began “I lived here in the early days.  For the last few years I’ve been apologizing for my home town.  I don’t want to apologize for it any longer.”

He sat down.  And a current seemed to wave from him around that dark square of figures.  The leader cleared his throat as if he had much to say, but he did not speak.  Instead he passed the hat.  Each man drew forth a slip of paper and wrote upon it.  The action was not slow.  Presently the hat returned round the table to the leader.  He spilled its contents, and with steady hand picked up the first slip of paper.