To preach her faith from the street corners--to cry it aloud in the wilderness where no ear heeded--violence, aggression, the campaign militant, had never appealed to the girl.

Like her nation, only when cornered did she blaze out and strike. But to harangue, threaten, demand of the world that it accept the Law of Service and of Love, seemed to her a mockery of the faith she had embraced, which, unless irrevocably in liaison with freedom, was no faith at all.

So, for Palla, the solution lay in loyalty to the faith she professed; in living it; in swaying ignorance by example; in overcoming incredulity by service, scepticism by love.

Love and Service? Why, all around her among these teeming millions were examples--volunteers in khaki, their sisters in the garments of mercy! Why must the world stop there? This was the right scent. Why should the hunt swerve for the devil's herring drawn across the trail?

One for all; all for one! She had read it on one of the war-posters.

Somebody had taken the splendid Guardsman's creed and had made it the slogan for this war against darkness.

And that was her creed--the true faith--the Law of Love. Then, was it good only in war? Why not make it the nation's creed? Why not emblazon it on the wall of every city on earth?--one for all; all for one; Love, Service, Freedom!

Before such a faith, autocracy and tyranny die. Under such a law every evil withers, every question is unravelled. There are no more problems of poverty and riches, none of greed and oppression.

The tyranny of convention, of observance, of taboo, of folkways, ends.

And into the brain of all living beings will be born the perfect comprehension of their own indestructible divinity.

Part of this she ventured to say to Ilse Westgard one day, when they had met for luncheon in a modest tea-room on Forty-third Street.

But Ilse, always inclined toward militancy, did not entirely agree with Palla.

"To embody in one's daily life the principles of one's living faith is scarcely sufficient," she said. "Good is a force, not an inert condition. So is evil. And we should not sit still while evil moves."

"Example is not inertia," protested Palla.

"Example, alone, is sterile, I think," said the ex-girl-soldier of the Battalion of Death, b.u.t.tering a crescent. She ate it with the delightful appet.i.te of flawless health, and poured out more chocolate.

"For instance, dear," she went on, "the forces of evil--of degeneration, ignorance, envy, ferocity, are gathering like a tornado in Russia.

Virtuous example, sucking its thumbs and minding its own business, will be torn to fragments when the storm breaks."

"The Bolsheviki?"

"The Reds. The Terrorists, I mean. You know as well as I do what they really are--merely looters skulking through the smoke of a world in flames--buzzards on the carca.s.s of a civilisation dead. But, Palla, they do not sit still and suck their thumbs and say, 'I am a Terrorist. Behold me and be converted.' No, indeed! They are moving, always in motion, preoccupied by their h.e.l.lish designs."

"In Russia, yes," admitted Palla.

"Everywhere, dearest. Here, also."

"I believe there are scarcely any in America," insisted Palla.

"The country crawls with them," retorted Ilse. "They work like moles, but already if you look about you can see the earth stirring above their tunnels. They are here, everywhere, active, scheming, plotting, whispering treason, stirring discontent, inciting envy, teaching treason.

"They are the Russians--Christians and Jews--who have filtered in here to do the nation mischief. They are the Germans who blew up factories, set fires, scuttled ships. They are foreigners who came here poisoned with envy; who have acquired nothing; whose greed and ferocity are whetted and ready for a universal conflagration by which they alone could profit.

"They are the labour leaders who break faith and incite to violence; they are the I. W. W.; they are the Black Hand, the Camorra; they are the penniless who would slay and rob; the landless who would kill and seize; the ignorant, nursing suspicion; the shiftless, brooding crimes to bring them riches quickly.

"And, Palla, your Law of Love and Service is good. But not for these."

"What law for them, then?"

"Education. Maybe with machine guns."

Palla shook her head. "Is that the way to educate defectives?"

"When they come at you _en ma.s.se_, yes!"

Palla laughed. "Dear," she said, "there is no nation-wide Terrorist plot. These mental defectives are not in ma.s.s anywhere in America."

"They are in dangerous groups everywhere. And every group is devoting its cunning to turning the working ma.s.ses into a vast mob of the Black Hundred! They did it in Russia. They are working for it all over the world. You do not believe it?"

"No, I don't, Ilse."

"Very well. You shall come with me this evening. Are you busy?"

The thought of Jim glimmered in her mind. He might feel aggrieved. But he ought to begin to realise that he couldn't be with her every evening.

"No, I haven't any plans, Ilse," she said, "no definite engagement, I mean. Will you dine at home with me?"

"Early, then. Because there is a meeting which you and I shall attend.

It is an education."

"An anarchist meeting?"

"Yes, Reds. I think we should go--perhaps take part----"

"What?"

"Why not? I shall not listen to lies and remain silent!" said Ilse, laughing. "The Revolution was good. But the Bolsheviki are nothing but greedy thieves and murderers. You and I know that. If anybody teaches people the contrary, I certainly shall have something to say."

Palla desired to purchase silk for sofa pillows, having acquired a chaise-longue for her bedroom.

So she and Ilse went out into the sunshine and multi-coloured crowd; and all the afternoon they shopped very blissfully--which meant, also, lingering before store windows, drifting into picture-galleries, taking tea at Sherry's, and finally setting out for home through a beflagged avenue jammed with traffic.

Dusk fell early but the drooping, orange-tinted globes which had replaced the white ones on the Fifth Avenue lamps were not yet lighted; and there still remained a touch of sunset in the sky when they left the bus.

At the corner of Palla's street, there seemed to be an unusual congestion, and now, above the noise of traffic, they caught the sound of a band; and turned at the curb to see, supposing it to be a military music.

The band was a full one, not military, wearing a slatternly sort of uniform but playing well enough as they came up through the thickening dusk, marching close to the eastern curb of the avenue.

They were playing _The Ma.r.s.eillaise_. Four abreast, behind them, marched a dingy column of men and women, mostly of foreign aspect and squatty build, carrying a flag which seemed to be entirely red.

Palla, perplexed, incredulous, yet almost instantly suspecting the truth, stared at the rusty ranks, at the knots of red ribbon on every breast.

Other people were staring, too, as the unexpected procession came shuffling along--late shoppers, business men returning home, soldiers--all paused to gaze at this sullen visaged battalion clumping up the avenue.

"Surely," said Palla to Ilse, "these people can't be Reds!"