WHAT he said appeared to pass ignored by Lily, for when he had finished she began to talk once more. "I can understand the bravery of fighting for that which you believe," she said. "I cannot understand yielding without a fight to the monster you despise. I knew a man. . . ." For a second she hesitated. "He fought for what he believed. He gave up everything for the fight . . . his health, his friends, his work, his money. He was beaten and bloody and wounded. He would have given his life if it had been necessary. He was a poor, ignorant Ukrainian peasant . . . a Russian who could barely read. Yet he fought. He fought and learned . . . up from nothing." Again she paused and the distant crackling sound filled in the silence, this time more distinct and sharp, nearer at hand. "You see, I am telling you this because it is the very monster that you hate which he too fought. He is still fighting it. In the end he will win. . . . If one could not believe such things, one could not live. He will go on fighting because there is inside him something which will not let him stop. But there are not many like him. There are too many like you."
Her voice carried the ring of supreme scorn. There was a quality of iciness in it, penetrating, contemptuous, acid.
Suddenly she covered her face with her hands. "In times like this," she said, "I think of him. It helps one to live." And after a moment, she added bitterly. "He would not have gone off to kill!"
"I can see, Madame," said the stranger, "that you despise me."
"It is more than that," answered Lily, her face still covered by her white hands. "I am certain now that I hate you."
The Uhlan frowned. "I am sorry," he said, "I thought you were sympathetic."
The only answer was a laugh, incredibly cold and savage from so beautiful a woman.
