“Tea, tea, where’s the tea?” he presently shouted.  As they drank, he said:  “The prince asks an impossibility, Mr. Shannon.  Say to him, no, simply no; he will understand, and so will you, I hope.  I’m done with all militant movements.  I’m converted to the peace party.  What’s the use of liberty to people who won’t know what to do with it when they get it?  Tolstoy is right.  Let the peasant be shown how to save his soul—­that and a little to eat and drink and a roof are all he needs in this life.”

Gerald was startled.  He had expected to find an “advanced” leader of the Bakounine type.  Instead, a man of the “vegetarian” order,—­as he had heard them called,—­who talked religion instead of dynamite;—­and after all the bother of bringing the letter down to this remote country!  Decidedly the princess was more enjoyable than a reformed anarchist.  She was gazing at him seriously now, her society manner gone.  Her nose, rather large for the harmony of her face, palpitated with eagerness.  Evidently, thought Gerald, the young lady is the real revolutionist in this curious household.  He also ventured to say so to her, but she did not meet his smiling declaration.  Her uncle, irritated by his interrupted discourse, exclaimed:—­

“Never mind what the Princess Mila thinks, Mr. Shannon.  Women change their minds.  The chief matter just now is that you cannot go away to-night.  You would lose your way, perhaps be drowned.  Can you sleep on a hard bed?” He was assured by Gerald that, if he had been turned away, he would have slept in an outhouse, even under one of those windmills he saw in such number on the strand.  Karospina smiled.

“Hardly there—­that is, if you expected to awaken.”  Then he left the room, saying that some one must see to the supper.  His niece burst into laughter.  Gerald joined in.

“He’s always like that, fussy, nervous, but with a heart of gold, Mr.—­Mr. Shannon.  Thank you.  It’s an Irish name, is it not?  And you look like an Irishman; a soldier, too, I fancy!”

Gerald blushed.  “A soldier in the cause of humanity,” he answered, “but no longer a hireling in the uniform of kings.”  He felt so foolish after this brave bit of rhetoric that he kept his eyes on the floor.  In an instant she was at his side.

“Give me your hand—­comrade!” she said, with a peculiar intonation.  “Oh! if you only knew how I longed to meet the right men.  Uncle is a convert—­no, hardly a backslider; but he swears by the regenerating process instead of violence.  Formerly the cleverest living chemist, he now—­oh!  I shame to say it—­he now indulges in firework displays instead of manufacturing bombs with which to execute tyrants.”  She slowly dropped his hand and her eyes wore a clairvoyant expression.  He was astounded.

“Fireworks!  Doesn’t the prince hold by his old faith—­he, a pupil of Bakounine, Netschajew, and Kropotkin?” Just then the prince came in, bearing a tray.  He seemed happy.