“Yes, I’m Maggie.  You trust me, don’t you, Laurie?  You can believe what I say?  Well, I want you to fight too.  You and I together.  Will you let me do what I can?”

Again the eyes rose, with that odd questioning look.  Maggie thought she perceived something else there too.  She gathered her forces quietly in silence an instant or two, feeling her heart quicken like the pulse of a moving engine.  Then she sprang to her feet.

“Listen, then—­in the name of Jesus of Nazareth—­”

He recoiled violently with a movement so fierce that the words died on her lips.  For one moment she thought he was going to spring.  And again he was on his feet, snarling.  There was silence for an interminable instant; then a stream of words, scorching and ferocious, snarled at her like the furious growling of a dog—­a string of blasphemies and filth.

Just so much she understood.  Yet she held her ground, unable to speak, conscious of the torrent of language that swirled against her from that suffused face opposite, yet not understanding a tenth part of what she heard.

...  “In the name of...”

On the instant the words ceased; but so overpowering was the venom and malice of the silence that followed that again she was silent, perceiving that the utmost she could do was to hold her ground.  So the two stood.  If the words were horrible to hear, the silence was more horrible a thousand times; it was as when a man faces the suddenly opened door of a furnace and sees the white cavern within.

He was the first to speak.

“You had better take care,” he said.

III

She scarcely knew how it was that she found herself again in her chair, with the figure seated opposite.

It seemed that the direct assault was useless.  And indeed she was no longer capable of making it.  The nausea had returned, and with it a sensation of weakness.  Her knees still were lax and useless; and her hand, as she turned it on the chair-arm, shook violently.  Yet she had a curious sense of irresponsibility:  there was no longer any terror—­nothing but an overpowering weakness of reaction.

She sat back in silence for some minutes, looking now at the fire too, now at the figure opposite, noticing, however, that the helplessness seemed gone.  His hands dangled no longer; he sat upright, his hands clasped, yet with a curious look of stiffness and unnaturalness.

Once more she began deliberately to attempt to gather her forces; but the will, it appeared, had lost its nervous grasp of the faculties.  It had no longer that quick grip and command with which she had begun.  Passivity rather than activity seemed her strength....