begin to tire of that recurrent blood-letting, and might perhaps even say, ’Brother across the boundary, I have no quarrel with you.  You are poor and ignorant like myself; the travail of the earth lies hard on you; I would rather give you my hand.  If I have any quarrel, surely it is with the tyrants of the earth, who have kept both you and me enslaved; who have taken away our children from us; who have left us scarcely bread.  How long, O Lord, how long?  We are tired of the reign of Caesar; we are beaten down with it; who will help us now to establish the reign of Christ?”

He rose.  Despite the unkempt hair, this man looked quite handsome now, while this serious look was in his face.  Brand began to perceive whence his friend Evelyn had derived at least some of his inspiration.

“Meanwhile,” O’Halloran said, with a light, scornful laugh, “Christianity has been of excellent service to Caesar; it has been the big policeman of Europe.  Do you think these poor wretches would have been so patient if they had not believed there was some compensation reserved for them beyond the grave?  They would have had Caesar by the throat by this time.”

“Then that scheme of co-operation you mentioned,” Brand said, somewhat hastily—­for he saw that O’Halloran was about to leave—­“that is what Ferdinand Lind is working at?”

The other started.

“I cannot give you any information on that point,” said O’Halloran, gravely.  “And I do not think you are likely to get much anywhere if you are only moved by curiosity, however sympathetic and well-wishing.”

He took up his hat and stick.

“Good-bye, Mr. Brand,” said he; and he looked at him with a kindly look.  “As far as I can judge, you are now in the position of a man at a partly opened door, half afraid to enter, and too curious to draw back.  Well, my advice to you is—­Draw back.  Or at least remember this:  that before you enter that room you must be without doubt—­and without fear.”

CHAPTER VI.

BON VOYAGE!

Fear he had none.  His life was not so valuable to him that he would have hesitated about throwing himself into any forlorn-hope, provided that he was satisfied of the justice of the cause.  He had dabbled a little in philosophy, and not only believed that the ordinary altruistic instincts of mankind could be traced to a purely utilitarian origin, but also that, on the same theory, the highest form of personal gratification might be found in the severest form, of self-sacrifice.  He did not pity a martyr; he envied him.  But before the martyr’s joy must come the martyr’s faith.  Without that enthusiastic belief in the necessity and nobleness and value of the sacrifice, what could there be but physical pain and the despair of a useless death?