"Charity," he said, at last, hesitatingly, "the Prophet teaches us—"
Enid's face flushed.
"Yes! yes!" she cried. "The Prophet teaches us that charity is the greater virtue. He tells us that we are to rely upon ourselves—and also upon each other. We are to help ourselves—and to help each other." Her voice shook, her face glowed in her excitement and suspense.
"I am in need of help," she added. "In desperate need. And you can help me."
Her tone was urgent, her compelling gaze never faltered. She knew that this was her last chance—that, if this man failed her, catastrophe was inevitable.
The Mystic stirred uncomfortably, and his glance turned half fearfully from the intent, appealing face to the lectern on which rested the white-bound Scitsym.
With a sudden access of enthusiasm, Enid spoke again.
"There is something troubling my Soul," she said. "Something that I must confess to the Prophet to-night. My whole happiness—all my peace—depends upon confessing it. I cannot speak with him before the Gathering assembles; but I can write my confession. Will you save my Soul? Will you carry my confession to him?"
Until the words were actually spoken, she did not realize how immensely she had staked upon her chances of success. In a fever of anxiety she waited, watching the man's gaze as it wavered undecidedly over the Scitsym, then returned, as if magnetized, to her face.
"In twenty minutes the Gathering will be assembled," he murmured.