He had expected to find an "advanced" leader of the
Bakounine type. Instead, a man of the "vegetarian" order,--as he had
heard them called,--who talked religion instead of dynamite;--and after
all the bother of bringing the letter down to this remote country!
Decidedly the princess was more enjoyable than a reformed anarchist. She
was gazing at him seriously now, her society manner gone. Her nose,
rather large for the harmony of her face, palpitated with eagerness.
Evidently, thought Gerald, the young lady is the real revolutionist in
this curious household. He also ventured to say so to her, but she did
not meet his smiling declaration. Her uncle, irritated by his
interrupted discourse, exclaimed:--
"Never mind what the Princess Mila thinks, Mr. Shannon. Women change
their minds. The chief matter just now is that you cannot go away
to-night. You would lose your way, perhaps be drowned. Can you sleep on
a hard bed?" He was assured by Gerald that, if he had been turned away,
he would have slept in an outhouse, even under one of those windmills he
saw in such number on the strand.
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