“My dear young lady,” he said, “it is useless for you to ask what that service is, for I shall refuse to answer you.  But I assure you that you have my deepest sympathy, and I have seen a good deal of suffering from similar causes.  I do not seek to break into your confidence, but I think I understand your position; you will believe me that it is with no light heart that I must repeat the word impossible.  Need I reason with you?  Need I point out to you that there is scarcely any one in the world whom we might select for a dangerous duty who would not have some one who would suffer on his account?  Who is without some tie of affection that must be cut asunder—­no matter with what pain—­when the necessity for the sacrifice arises?  You are one of the unhappy ones; you must be brave; you must try to forget your sufferings, as thousands of wives and sweethearts and daughters have had to forget, in thinking that their relatives and friends died in a good cause.”

Her heart was proud and indignant no longer; it had grown numbed.  The air from the sea felt cold.

“I am helpless, signore,” she murmured; “I do not know what the cause is.  I do not know what justification you have for taking this man’s life.”

He did not answer that.  He said,

“Perhaps, indeed, it is not those who are called on to sacrifice their life for the general good who suffer most.  They can console themselves with thinking of the result.  It is their friends—­those dearest to them—­who suffer, and who many a time would no doubt be glad to become their substitutes.  It is true that we—­that is, that many associations—­recognize the principle of the vicarious performance of duties and punishments; but not any one yet has permitted a woman to become substitute for a man.”

“What made you think of that, signore?” she asked, regarding him.

“I have known some cases,” he said, evasively, “where such an offer, I think, would have been made.”

“It could not be accepted?”

“Oh no.”

“Not even by the power that is the greatest in Europe?” she said, bitterly—­“that is invincible and all-generous?  Oh, signore, you are too modest in your pretensions!  And the Berezolyis—­they have done nothing, then, in former days to entitle them to consideration; they are but as anybody in the crowd who might come forward and intercede for a friend; they have no old associates, then, and companions in this Society, that they cannot have this one thing granted them—­that they cannot get this one man’s life spared to him!  Signore, your representatives mistake your powers; more than that, they mistake the strength of your memory, and your friendship!”

The red face of the bullet-headed general grew redder still, but not with anger.

“Signorina,” he said, evidently greatly embarrassed, “you humiliate me.  You—­you do not know what you ask—­”

He had led her back to the garden-seat; they had both sat down; he did not notice how her bosom was struggling with emotion.