"Do you not know I am a woman?"
AS YOU LIKE IT.

Sobrenski was a man who wasted no time in making up his mind. His success as a leader had depended upon his swiftness of action and unscrupulousness, and his latest manoeuvres had turned out an admirable success, upon which he might safely congratulate himself.

The day following the resolution of the Committee, he had written to
Arithelli, telling her to come to his flat to receive instructions.
She would arrive in due time, and then he would explain things.

He wondered whether she would faint or scream or perhaps refuse, but probably she would be easier to manage now that Poleski was safely out of the way. He had schemed that business well too, and could now spare all his attention for Vardri and the girl.

As to the amount of work they both did, they would be no great loss, for he could easily supply their places by other human machines who would carry out his desires without question. The majority of the men who composed the circle were completely dominated by him, and incapable of opposing his will or argument, and by some he was worshipped as a hero. Callous of suffering in others, he was equally indifferent to it for himself, and if he did not spare his tools he also slaved incessantly day and night.

The large bare room in which he sat possessed very little furniture and no signs of comfort. There were a quantity of books piled on the floor and mantelpiece, and the centre space was filled by an enormous bureau heaped with a mass of printed and written papers, for besides his extensive correspondence he was part-editor of one of the Anarchist journals, which he enlivened by daring and sarcastic contributions. The fragment of the letter that Arithelli had dropped, lay open in front of him. He read it through again and smiled to himself.

"I'll give up even the Cause for your sake," Vardri had written. "Seeing how these men have made you suffer has changed my views. There must be something wrong about our ideas if they produce this cruelty to women. Sobrenski and the others are killing you slowly. I wanted struggle and excitement at one time, and whether it meant Life or Death it was all the same. There was no one to care. Now I want Life and Love and You!"

Another madman like Gaston de BarrÉs! How alike all these effusions were, all in the same strain. They had found a pile of ravings when they had searched among the property of the heroine of that affair. These were the people who did an incredible amount of harm, who were even more dangerous than the ordinary traitor.

He pushed the letter underneath some others, and Arithelli had knocked more than once, before he called "Entrez!"

He saluted her with a cold scrutiny, telling her to wait till he had finished. He invariably made a point of using no title in addressing her, and never even gave her the customary Anarchist greeting of camarade. He did not invite her to sit down, and she would have been surprised if he had done so. There was another chair at the far end of the room, and she did not trouble to fetch it. Her heart was still further weakened by her illness, and she was breathless after climbing two long flights of stairs. She leant up against the wall, breathing quickly, and thankful for a few moments' respite.

She supposed she was required to play "errand-boy" as usual, and to go through the well-known routine: A crumpled-up slip of paper, which she must hide in her hair or dress, a long walk, or a ride in the electric tram if she happened to have any money, and then perhaps at the end of it she would find the man for whom she was seeking absent, and then she would have to wait till he returned. It was never safe to leave a message. Everything had to be given directly into the hands of those for whom it was intended, and she had spent many weary hours in the rooms of Sobrenski's followers.

She studied his face as he rapidly stamped his letters, flinging them on to a pile of others that lay ready. It crossed her mind how Emile had once likened a certain group of the conspirators to a pack of court cards, saying that they were alternately red and black.

Sobrenski's hair and small peaked beard were of a curiously unpleasant colour, and his thin lips, pointed teeth and long sloping jaw gave him a wolfish appearance. His eyes, deep-set and narrow, were too close together to satisfy a student of Lavater as to his capacity for truthfulness. The forehead alone was good, and showed reasoning and intellect. He was about fifty, and like all fair men looked less than his age. He was better dressed, and altogether more careful of his appearance than most of the other men, though he spent nothing on luxuries and never touched the absinthe, to which most of them were addicted. The sole luxuries in which he indulged were Work and Power.

"Probably you have heard a great deal of talk about spies lately," he began, addressing Arithelli in French. "For some time I have suspected one of our own number of treachery. However, one cannot condemn without proofs. For these I have been waiting and they have now come into my hands. I'm perfectly satisfied that the man I have all along suspected is a traitor, and there is no need to delay action any longer. I suppose Poleski has informed you of how we treat those who are unwise enough to betray us?"

"Yes."

She was on her guard now, and stood upright, all her languor gone. Why could he not say what he meant at once? She wondered why he had taken the trouble to seek for proofs of anyone's guilt. Enough for a man of his type to find an obstruction in his path. He would need no authority but his own for removing it. She hated him all the more for his parade of justice. It had not occurred to her that his speech was a prelude to anything that concerned Vardri. If anyone was implied she imagined it was herself. These men were never happy unless they were suspecting evil of someone. The Anarchist leader found in her incomprehension merely another sign of feminine stupidity. Her outward air of indifference was as irritating to him as it had been to the Hippodrome Manager. Sobrenski's blood had never stirred for any woman, however charming, and Arithelli's type of looks was repulsive to him. He loathed her thinness and pallor, her silence and immobility of expression. He vowed inwardly that she should look less indifferent before he had finished with her.

"You do not appear to have the least idea of the identity of the man to whom I am referring," he continued. "Your friend Vardri is not a very careful person. He is young, and shall we say, a little foolish. It is always risky to say or write anything against the Cause one is supposed to be serving."

"To say or write." It dawned upon her all at once. The piece of the letter she had missed, had been dropped in the stable up in the hills and found by Sobrenski. It was all her own fault, sheer rank carelessness. Emile had so often warned her against her fatal habit of leaving everything about. She never locked up anything, jewellery, clothes, money or papers.

Perhaps in the hurry of dressing that night, she had only taken with her the first page, and when she was out her rooms had been searched, and the rest stolen. Sobrenski would stop at nothing to get the evidence he wanted. If she accused him of having taken it he would simply deny the charge, and to seem anxious would be further evidence that the letter contained something that would compromise either Vardri or herself. In any case it appeared that the mischief was done. To expect either justice or mercy from her enemy was out of the question. She would try and fight him with his own weapon, feign ignorance, tell lies if necessary.

"Vardri? What has he done?"

The note of surprise in her voice was well assumed and she could control her face, but her hands betrayed her. Sobrenski had seen the blue veins stand out and the knuckles whiten unnaturally with the pressure on the black fan she carried to shield her eyes in the street.

"Done?" he echoed contemptuously. "Nothing so far. He has only talked and written. It is to provide against his doing anything important that the Committee have decided upon his removal. There was a meeting held last night and the voting was unanimous. Vardri has been condemned as a traitor to his vows, and a danger to everyone connected with our work."

"Condemned without a hearing!" the girl flamed out. "Mon Dieu! Your justice! What has he done?"

"Have you a right to question the judgment of the Committee?" The voice was like a scourge falling on bare flesh. Arithelli drew her shoulders together involuntarily.

"No!" she answered.

"Yet you do it! These womanly inconsistencies are a little fatiguing."

Sobrenski caressed his beard with a narrow, bloodless hand, on the middle finger of which was a curious ring of twisted gold wire.

He waited to see if she would make any further protest, but she set her lips firmly and refused to speak. There was nothing more to be said on her side. Evidently Sobrenski had found the letter, and when or where it had been found mattered not at all. He continued:

"The sentence has been passed and it falls upon you to execute it."

The answer came back swiftly:

"And if I refuse?"

For once in his life Sobrenski was taken aback, and experienced a new sensation, that of surprise. He looked at her with almost approval. If he was cruel he was also courageous, and able to appreciate the virtue in others.

"You know what your refusal implies?" he questioned, more gently than he had yet spoken. "You refused some time ago to carry a message. You will perhaps remember that I gave you the choice between doing as you were told, or—" he gesticulated expressively. "You were wise then. I hope you will be wise now."

Arithelli's thoughts were going at racing speed. No one could be long in a room alone with Sobrenski without being impressed by his overpowering personality. He affected her in a way that no one else ever did, in provoking her to futile outbursts of defiance and anger. She had never lost her head with anyone else, but he always made her incapable of reasoning, raging one minute, and cowed the next. Hitherto Emile had always been there to screen and protect her, to stand between her and her enemy. She knew now why he had so often hoped to see her in her coffin.

"I can't murder! I undertook to work for the Cause, but not that—Mon
Dieu! not that!"

"We don't talk about murder," Sobrenski sneered. "We merely 'remove' those who have proved themselves untrustworthy. You undertook to obey orders, I believe. You may contradict me if I am incorrect."

He leant forward with the glittering eyes of the fanatic. "You talk of murder and forget that to us human life is nothing. Do you think you will save Vardri by refusing? Am I to suppose that he has infected you also with the taint of disloyalty? It is your business to loathe a traitor as we do. You wear your badge, but do you never read the words on it? Poleski used to tell me great things of your enthusiasm, your devotion. Now I am putting you to the test. You like to act a picturesque part, it seems, to wear boy's clothes, to sing, to be the only woman among us, to act the heroine. We do not want acting here. This is Life, not the stage. Now you are asked to give a practical proof of your loyalty!"

The pitiless tongue lashed, and Arithelli shrank against the wall, her hands over her eyes. There had been stories current among the younger members of the Barcelona Anarchists that Sobrenski possessed the power of hypnotism and did not scruple to use it. Some of the most daring and successful outrages of the past years had been carried out under his direction, and executed by these youths. He always made a point of choosing men who were highly strung and impressionable. He was known to boast that after three interviews with him he could make anyone, either man or woman, into a will-less automaton.

He exhorted, jeered, encouraged and derided, finally giving Arithelli five minutes in which to make her decision. She did not keep him waiting, though he could scarcely hear the murmured words of assent. Her nerve was broken at last. She would promise anything, do anything if only he would let her go. Dazed with fear and misery, she watched him get up, unlock a drawer of the bureau and come across to her holding out something.

"I shall arrange for you to be together one night up in the hut. I don't know whether you have any idea of shooting, but you can hardly miss at such close range."

The brutal words steadied her, and drove back the feeling of mental paralysis. She realised suddenly all that her promise meant. Vardri had given her love, and in return she was to give him Death! Her own dawning love had enabled her to see more clearly what his devotion meant. With the growth of a woman's soul she had also begun to experience womanly emotions, fear, anxiety, the need of sympathy and affection.

She snatched the pistol from Sobrenski's hand, and he stepped back a pace, throwing up his arm instinctively as she raised, levelled and fired.

The weapon clicked harmlessly, her hand dropped to her side, and she stood shivering, and wondering at her own madness. The whole thing had been done without thinking, as an animal driven into a corner turns, snarling and showing its teeth.

Sobrenski recovered himself first and laughed.

"So you thought it was loaded?" he said. "Do you take me for a fool?
Allow me to congratulate you on your—failure!"

Then changing his tone of sarcasm to command: "You must hide that pistol carefully. Put it inside your dress or somewhere safe. I suppose you would like to march down the PasÉo de Gracia, carrying it in your hand, and wearing a tragic expression,—and get locked up by the first agent de police you meet! You have pluck enough, but you should avoid these exhibitions of hysteria."

He gripped her by the shoulder, swung her round, and pointed to the door, "Allez!"