“Nations do not ask the truth.  They want only excuses.”

“Quite true.  And because of that, all the more rests with you.  If this situation goes on, war must come.  It can not be averted, unless it be by some agency quite outside of these two governments.  Here, then, Madam, is Helena von Ritz!”

“At least, there is time,” she mused.  “These ships are not here for any immediate active war.  Great Britain will make no move until—­”

“Until Madam the Baroness, special agent of England, most trusted agent, makes her report to Mr. Pakenham!  Until he reports to his government, and until that government declares war!  ’Twill take a year or more.  Meantime, you have not reported?”

“No, I am not yet ready.”

“Certainly not.  You are not yet possessed of your facts.  You have not yet seen this country.  You do not yet know these men—­the same savages who once accounted for another Pakenham at New Orleans—­hardy as buffaloes, fierce as wolves.  Wait and see them come pouring across the mountains into Oregon.  Then make your report to this Pakenham.  Ask him if England wishes to fight our backwoodsmen once more!”

“You credit me with very much ability!” she smiled.

“With all ability.  What conquests you have made in the diplomacy of the Old World I do not know.  You have known courts.  I have known none.  Yet you are learning life.  You are learning the meaning of the only human idea of the world, that of a democracy of endeavor, where all are equal in their chances and in their hopes.  That, Madam, is the only diplomacy which will live.  If you have passed on that torch of principle of which you spoke—­if I can do as much—­then all will be well.  We shall have served.”

She dropped now into a chair near by a little table, where the light of the tall candles, guttering in their enameled sconces, fell full upon her face.  She looked at me fixedly, her eyes dark and mournful in spite of their eagerness.

“Ah, it is easy for you to speak, easy for you who have so rich and full a life—­who have all!  But I—­my hands are empty!” She spread out her curved fingers, looking at them, dropping her hands, pathetically drooping her shoulders.

“All, Madam?  What do you mean?  You see me almost in rags.  Beyond the rifle at my cabin, the pistol at my tent, I have scarce more in wealth than what I wear, while you have what you like.”

“All but everything!” she murmured; “all but home!”

“Nor have I a home.”

“All, except that my couch is empty save for myself and my memories!”

“Not more than mine, nor with sadder memories, Madam.”

“Why, what do you mean?” she asked me suddenly.  “What do you mean?” She repeated it again, as though half in horror.

“Only that we are equal and alike.  That we are here on the same errand.  That our view of life should be the same.”

“What do you mean about home?  But tell me, were you not then married?”