if his life inflicts injury on the well-being of his
fellow-men, from that moment he forfeits the
right, and it is not only no crime but a positive
merit to deprive him of it. It is not for me to say
in what, frightful circumstances of oppression and
suffering this Society took its rise. It is not for you
to say—you Englishmen, who have conquered your
freedom so long ago, that you have conveniently
forgotten what blood you shed, and what
extremities you proceeded to in the conquering—
it is not for you to say how far the worst of
all exasperations may, or may not, carry the
maddened men of an enslaved nation. The iron
that has entered into our souls has gone too deep
for you to find it. Leave the refugee alone!
Laugh at him, distrust him, open your eyes in
wonder at that secret self which smoulders
in him, sometimes under the every-day respectability
and tranquillity of a man like me;
sometimes under the grinding poverty, the fierce
squalor, of men less lucky, less pliable, less
patient than I am—but judge us not! In the
time of your first Charles you might have
done us justice; the long luxury of your own
freedom has made you incapable of doing us
justice now."

All the deepest feelings of his nature seemed
to force themselves to the surface in those
words; all his heart was poured out to me, for
the first time in our lives—but still, his voice
never rose; still his dread of the terrible
revelation he was making to me, never left him.

"So far," he resumed, "you think the Society
like other Societies. Its object (in your
English opinion) is anarchy and revolution. It
takes the life of a bad King or a bad Minister,
as if the one and the other were dangerous wild
beasts to be shot at the first opportunity. I
grant you this. But the laws of the Brotherhood
are the laws of no other political society
on the face of the earth. The members are not
known to one another. There is a President in
Italy; there are Presidents abroad. Each of
these has his Secretary. The Presidents and
the Secretaries know the members; but the
members, among themselves, are all strangers,
until their Chiefs see fit, in the political necessity
of the time, or in the private necessity of
the society, to make them known to each other.
With such a safeguard as this, there is no oath
among us on admittance. We are identified
with the Brotherhood by a secret mark, which
we all bear, which lasts while our lives last.
We are told to go about our ordinary business,
and to report ourselves to the President, or the
Secretary, four times a year, in the event of our
services being required. We are warned, if we
betray the Brotherhood, or if we injure it by
serving other interests, that we die by the
principles of the Brotherhood—die by the hand of
a stranger who may be sent from the other end
of the world to strike the blow—or by the hand
of our own bosom-friend, who may have been a
member unknown, to us through all the years
of our intimacy. Sometimes, the death is
delayed; sometimes, it follows close on the
treachery. It is our first business to know how
to wait—our second business to know how to
obey when the word is spoken. Some of us
may wait our lives through, and may not be
wanted. Some of us may be called to the work,
or to the preparation for the work, the very day
of our admission. I myself—the little, easy,
cheerful man you know, who, of his own accord,
would hardly lift up his handkerchief to strike
down the fly that buzzes about his face—I, in
my younger time, under provocation so dreadful
that I will not tell you of it, entered the
Brotherhood by an impulse, as I might have
killed myself by an impure. I must remain in
it, now—it has got me, whatever I may think
of it in my better circumstances and my cooler
manhood, to my dying day. While I was still
in Italy, I was chosen Secretary; and all the
members of that time, who were brought face
to face with my President, were brought face to
face also with me."

I began to understand him; I saw the end
towards which his extraordinary disclosure was
now tending. He waited a moment, watching
me earnestly—watching, till he had evidently
guessed what was passing in my mind, before
he resumed.

"You have drawn your own conclusion
already," he said. "I see it in your face. Tell
me nothing; keep me out of the secret of your
thoughts. Let me make my one last sacrifice
of myself, for your sake—and then have done
with this subject, never to return to it again."

He signed to me not to answer him—rose—
removed his coat—and rolled up the shirt-sleeve
on his left arm.

"I promised you that this confidence should
be complete," he whispered, speaking close at
my ear, with his eyes looking watchfully at the
door. "Whatever comes of it, you shall not
reproach me with having hidden anything from
you which it was necessary to your interests to
know. I have said that the Brotherhood
identifies its members by a mark that lasts for life.
See the place, and the mark on it, for yourself."

He raised his bare arm, and showed me, high
on the upper part of it and on the inner side, a
brand deeply burnt in the flesh and stained of a
bright blood-red colour. I abstain from
describing the device which the brand represented.
It will be sufficient to say that it was circular
in form, and so small that it would have been
completely covered by a shilling coin.

"A man who has this mark, branded in this
place," he said, covering his arm again, "is a
member of the Brotherhood. A man who has
been false to the Brotherhood is discovered,
sooner or later, by the Chiefs who know him—
Presidents or Secretaries, as the case may be.
And a man discovered by the Chiefs is dead.
No human laws can protect him. Remember
what you have seen and heard; draw what
conclusions you like; act as you please. But, in
the name of God, whatever you discover, whatever
you do, tell me nothing! Let me remain
free from a responsibility which it horrifies me
to think of—which I know, in my conscience, is
not my responsibility, now. For the last time,