“It came upon me like a thunderbolt,” Maxendorf proceeded.  “I heard unexpectedly that Maraton had entered Parliament, had placed his hand in the hand of a Minister—­not even the leader of the people’s Party.  You do not read the Press of my country, perhaps.  You did not hear across the seas the groan which came from the hearts of my children.  I said to myself—­’The Maraton whom we knew of exists no longer, yet I will go and see.’”

Maraton moved in his chair a little uneasily.  He felt suddenly as though he were a prisoner at the bar, and this man his judge.

“You do not understand the circumstances which I found existing on my arrival here,” Maraton explained.  “You do not understand the promises which I have received from Mr. Foley, and which he is already carrying into effect.  You read of the Lancashire strike?”

Maxendorf nodded his long head slowly but said nothing.

“The settlement of that,” Maraton continued, “was arranged before I spoke to the people.  It is the same with Sheffield.  For the first time, the Parliament of this country has passed a measure compelling the manufacturers to recognise and treat with the demands of the people.  Trade Unionism has been lifted to an entirely different level.  There are three Bills now being drafted—­people’s Bills.  Revolutionary measures they would have been called, a thousand years ago.  Every industry in the country will have its day.  In the next ten years Capital will have earned many millions less, and those many millions will have gone to the labouring classes.”

“Is it you who speak,” Maxendorf asked grimly, “or is this another man—­a sophist living in the shadow of Maraton’s fame?  Is there anything of the truth, anything of the great compelling truth in this piecemeal legislation?  Is it in this way that the freedom of a country can be gained?  One gathered that the Maraton who sent his message across the seas had different plans.”

“I had,” Maraton admitted, “but the time came when I was forced to ask myself whether they were not rather the plans of the dreamer and the theorist, when I was forced to ask myself whether I was justified in destroying this generation for the sake of those to come.  Life, after all, is a marvellous gift.  You and I may believe in immortality, but who can be sure?  It is easy enough to play chess, but when the pawns are human lives, who would not hesitate?”

Maxendorf sighed.

“I cannot talk with you, Maraton,” he said.  “You will not speak with me honestly.  You came, you landed on these shores with an inspired idea—­something magnificent, something worthy.  You have substituted for it the time-worn methods of all the reformers since the days of Adam, who have parted with their principles and dabbled in sentimental altruism.  Piecemeal legislation—­what can it do?”

“It can build,” Maraton declared.  “It can build, generation by generation.  It can produce a saner race, and as the light comes, so the truth will flow in upon the minds of all.”