“Certes! you are afraid,” mocked Dirk. “Afraid of God, of justice, maybe of man — but I tell you that these things are nought to us.” He paused, lifted his eyes and lowered them again. “Our destiny is not of our shaping; — we take the weapons laid to our hands and use them as we are bid. Life and death shall both serve us to our appointed end.”
Theirry came to the other side of the table and gazed, fearfully, across at him. “Who are you?” he questioned softly.
Dirk did not answer; an expression of dread and despair withered all the life in his features; the extraordinary look in his suddenly dimmed eyes sent a chill to Theirry’s heart.
“Ah!” he cried, stepping back with manifest loathing.
Dirk put his hand over his eyes and moaned. “Do you hate me, Theirry? Do you hate me?”
“I — I do
