WAR
fingers—laugh—your dead eyes would be staring up at them—your lips would be smiling—your mouth—your hair would be fallen damply over your face—yes, they would laugh at their mistake and go away and let you lie for the carrion birds—and even then Dave would not be saved!"
"Stop!" shrieks Evelyn. "What's to be done—what's to be done? I can not go. I dare not die. Daddy?" she whispers at last very low.
"No!" thunders Jon. "He deserves least of all to be the sacrifice. He has had least of you. And they wouldn't believe him a traitor."
"Then who—Jon, dear, will go as Lucas Mallory? Some one must—for Dave's sake!"
"I," says Jon.
"Oh, my poor Jon—my poor old Jonthy! To think—No, no! Let me die. It will be best that way."
"That way," says Jon, as if through his closed teeth, "accomplishes nothing but your death. The trouble is still there. You dare not
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