following each curve of his body, from the cushions of his great fore paws to the arch of his gathered haunches.  The watchfulness and flexible activity of the serpent and the strength that knows no master are clothed in the magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign.  Time and times again the beautiful giant has gone through the slavish round of his mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of intelligence, to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and heart only.  He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to the laughter, to the applause, to the frightened scream of the hysterical women in the audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behind the bars.  The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to his tiger, to his emotions, to his hourly danger.  He even finds at last that his mind wanders during the performance, and that at the very instant when he is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into the beast’s fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little child, of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than of what he is doing.  Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes off quietly and successfully.  Then, inevitably, comes the struggle.  Who can tell the causes?  The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or is not well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which animals are subject as well as their masters.  One day he refuses to go through with the performance.  First one trick fails, and then another.  The public grows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises his voice, stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave with his light switch.  A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous throat, the spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are gathered for the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man and beast are face to face.  Life hangs in the balance, and death is at the door.

Then the tamer’s heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows are furrowed.  Even then, in the instant that still separates him from triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his watching wife darts through his brain.  But the struggle has begun and there is no escape.  One of two things must happen:  he must overcome or he must die.  To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as the least sign of fear, is death.  The moment is supreme, and he knows it.

Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical support in her extremity.  She could not yield.  Before her eyes arose a vision unlike the reality in all its respects.  She saw an older face, a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry man who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance.  Between her and her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, and strong.  A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passion was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblance of a sacred fire.