Unless a person actually witness a murder, he cannot imagine the shock and dreadfulness of seeing one man shot down, writhe, gasp, grow pale and cease struggling. To picture ten men murdered simply stuns the mind. An effort to realize hundreds, thousands, millions of men mangled, wounded, bayoneted, crushed, blown to atoms by shells and mine—all this becomes vague, formless, a dim, dreadful picture that is as unreal as a dream, or history.
“What caused it?” asked Madden in a strained tone.
“I don't know,” whispered the mate huskily. “They say it all started because an anarchist killed an Austrian prince, but I don't believe it—that sounds too onreasonable for me.”
“What has an Austrian prince to do with the rest of the nations?”
“I told you I don't believe it!” repeated the mate.
Madden felt impotent at the conclusion of the narrative. As long as he had conceived himself to be attacking a force of pirates and thieves, he was ready to board this great vessel, hunt for an engineer, or attempt any desperate
