should be proud to stake my liberty and my life to protect my own
people from such horrible brutality."

The wounded man opened his eyes and looked full at Angela. It was a
look at once of gratitude and reverence and admiration.

Her heart leaped within her.

So far no man in the little walled-in zone she had lived in had ever
stirred her to an even momentary enthusiasm. They were all so
fatuously contented with their environment. Sheltered from birth,
their anxiety was chiefly how to make life pass the pleasantest.
They occasionally showed a spasmodic excitement over the progress of
a cricket or polo match. Their achievements were largely those of
the stay-at-home warriors who fought with the quill what others
faced death with the sword for. Their inertia disgusted her. Their
self-satisfaction spurred her to resentment.

Here was a man in the real heart of life. He was engaged in a
struggle that makes existence worth while--the effort to bring a
message to his people.

How all the conversations she was forced to listen to in her narrow
world rose up before her in their carping meannesses! Her father's
brutal diatribes against a people, unfortunate enough to be
compelled, from force of circumstance, to live on a portion of land
that belonged to him, yet in whose lives he took no interest
whatsoever. His only anxiety was to be paid his rents. How, and
through what misery, his tenants scraped the money together to do it
with, mattered nothing to him. All that DID matter was that he MUST