time for the last century. He was fiery, but inconstant, patriotic but bombastic, zealous but visionary, mighty to plot but utterly incapable of action. Vanity, pride, and despair were written on his features.
The other man, Bunau-Varilla, was his antithesis in every respect. He was clear cut, with lines of prompt, decisive action written all over his features. He was a Frenchman, gifted with all the imagination and daring of his race. Courage, endurance, brilliant intelligence, limitless resources, a flashing wit, and a contempt for obstacles, had already made his name famous throughout the civilized world, and yet he was in a sense an adventurer. Like a knight of old on the road to Palestine, he represented nobody. In the tremendous and dangerous game of world politics and national destinies he played a lone hand, relying only upon his own unbounded spirit and consummate audacity.
He had just arrived in New York from Paris. Upon learning of the amazing action
