“Great heavens, what is it, Brand?”

That confession of weakness did not last long.  Brand rose to his feet impatiently, and took a turn or two up and down the small room.

“What is it?  Well, I have received my sentence to-night, Evelyn.  But it isn’t that—­it is the thought of those I shall leave behind—­Natalie, and those boys of my sister’s—­if people were to find out after all that they were related to me!”

He was looking at the things that presented themselves to his own mind; he forgot that Evelyn could not understand; he almost forgot that he was speaking aloud.  But by-and-by he got himself better under control.  He sat down again.  He forced himself to speak calmly:  the only sign of emotion was that his face was rather pale, and his eyes looked tired and harassed.

“Yes, I told you my nervous system had got a shock, Evelyn; but I think I have got over it.  It won’t do for me in my position to abandon one’s self to sentiment."’

“I wish you would tell me what you mean.”

Brand regarded him.

“I cannot tell you the whole thing, but this will be enough.  The Council have decreed the death of a certain person, and I am appointed his executioner.”

“You are raving mad!”

“Perhaps it would be better if I were,” he said, with a sigh.  “However, such is the fact.  The ballot was taken to-night; the lot fell to me.  I have no one to blame except myself.”

Lord Evelyn was too horrified to speak.  The calm manner of his companion ought to have carried conviction with it; and yet—­and yet—­how could such a thing be possible?

“Yes, I blame myself,” Brand said, “for not having made certain reservations when pledging myself to the Society.  But how was one to think of such things?  When Lind used to denounce the outrages of the Nihilists, and talk with indignation of the useless crimes of the Camorra, how could one have thought it possible that assassination should be demanded of you as a duty?”

“But Lind,” Lord Evelyn exclaimed—­“surely Lind does not approve of such a thing?”

“No, he does not,” Brand answered.  “He says it will prove a misfortune—­”

“Then why does he not protest?”

“Protest against a decree of the Council!” the other exclaimed.  “You don’t know as much as I do, Evelyn, about that Council.  No, I have sworn obedience, and I will obey.”

He had recovered his firmness; he seemed resigned—­even resolved.  It was his friend who was excited.

“I tell you all the oaths in the world cannot compel a man to commit murder,” Evelyn said, hotly.

“Oh, they don’t call it murder,” Brand replied, without any bitterness whatever; “they call it a punishment, a warning to the evil-doers of Europe.  And no doubt this man is a great scoundrel, and cannot be reached by the law; and then, besides, one of the members of the Society, who is poor and old, and who has suffered grievous wrong from this man, has appealed to the Council to avenge him.  No; I can see their positions.  I have no doubt they believe they are acting justly.”