Fear he had none. His life was not so valuable to him that he would have
hesitated about throwing himself into any forlorn-hope, provided that he
was satisfied of the justice of the cause. He had dabbled a little in
philosophy, and not only believed that the ordinary altruistic instincts
of mankind could be traced to a purely utilitarian origin, but also
that, on the same theory, the highest form of personal gratification
might be found in the severest form, of self-sacrifice. He did not pity
a martyr; he envied him. But before the martyr's joy must come the
martyr's faith. Without that enthusiastic belief in the necessity and
nobleness and value of the sacrifice, what could there be but physical
pain and the despair of a useless death?

But, if he had no fear, he had a superabundance of doubt. He had not all
the pliable, receptive, imaginative nature of his friend, Lord Evelyn.
He had more than the ordinary Englishman's distrust of secrecy. He was
not to be won over by the visions of a St. Simon, the eloquence of a
Fourier, the epigrams of a Proudhon: these were to him but intellectual
playthings, of no practical value. It was, doubtless, a novelty for a
young man brought up as Lord Evelyn had been to associate with a
gin-drinking Irish reporter, and to regard him as the mysterious apostle
of a new creed; Brand only saw in O'Halloran a light-headed,
imaginative, talkative person, as safe to trust to for guidance as a
will-o'-the-wisp. It is true that for the time being he had been
thrilled by the passionate fervor of Natalie Lind's singing; and many a
time since he could have fancied that he heard in the stillness of the
night that pathetic and vibrating appeal--

"When, when will the Lord cry, 'Revenge, it is mine?'"