“It isn’t right,” she said, passionately.  “The poorest laborer has more than you.  He has his home and his family.  No matter how poor he is, no matter what he suffers, he has some compensations. ...And you —­you’re giving your life and everything in life that’s bright and beautiful for that laborer.”

“The happiness of one man buying the happiness of millions,” he said, his black eyes glowing.  “Yet sometimes we have our weak moments.  We see and we desire.”

“And are entitled to possess,” she said.

His eyes glowed upon her hungrily—­she read the hunger in them, hunger for her!  It frightened her, yet it made her heart leap with pride.  To be looked upon with favor by such a man!

“Some women,” he said, slowly, “might live through it.  There are women big enough and strong enough—­a few, maybe.  Big enough to endure neglect and loneliness; to live and not know if their husbands would sleep at home that night or in a jail or be in the middle of a riot on the other side of the world!  They could not even depend on their husbands for support. ...A few might not complain, might be able to endure. ...You, Miss Ruth—­I believe you are one of them!”

Her cheeks paled.  Was he—­could he be about to ask her to share his life?  It was impossible!  Yet what else could he mean?  To what else could his words be tending?  She was awed, frightened—­yet warmed by a surge of pride.  She thought of her father. ...If he could see and know!  If knowledge could only pass to him that his daughter had been thought worthy by such a man to play her part for the Cause!...She waited tensely, hand pressed to her bosom.

Dulac stepped toward her, barbarically handsome.  She felt the force, the magnetism of him.  It called to her, compelled her. ...She could not lift her eyes.

Slowly he approached another step.  It was as though he were forced to her against his will.  The silence in the room was the tense silence of a human crisis. ...Then it was broken ruthlessly.  There came a pounding on the door that was not a knock, but an alarm.  It was imperative, excited, ominous.

“Oh...”  Ruth cried.

Her mother was opening the door.

“Dulac!  Where’s Dulac?” a man’s voice demanded.

“Here,” he replied.  “What is it?”

“O’Hagan’s in town,” the man panted, rushing into the room.  “They’ve brought in O’Hagan and his gang of bullies.”

O’Hagan, king of strike breakers!  Ruth knew that name well, and what the arrival of the man of evil omen foretold.  It promised violence, riot, bloodshed, suffering.

“They’re going to try to run, then,” said Dulac, calmly.

“The police have escorted a mob of scabs into the mill yards.  They’ve tried to drive away our pickets.  They’ve locked up Higgins and Bowen.  Got Mason, too, but the crowd took him away from the police.”

“It’s on their own heads,” said Dulac, solemnly.  “I’ll come with you.”  He turned to Ruth and took her hand.  “You see,” he said, “it calls me away—­even from a moment like that. ...”