's deep voice vibrated with passionate horror. "Cease thy
treason, or I crush thy wicked heart in these two hands. Dolores is
mistress of my soul--my body is but the slave of that."

"Pish!" retorted Pascherette, contemptuously. "She has thee dazzled,
Milo. Say, dost thou not love me?" she demanded, standing tiptoe and
thrusting her piquant little face under his gaze. "Look in my eyes, and
then tell me another woman owns thy soul!"

"Yes, I love thee," replied Milo, with simple earnestness. "I love thee;
yet will I kill thee ere Dolores suffers ill through thy scheming. Have
done with this talk. I hate thee for it!"

"Love--and hate!" she laughed metallically. "Loving me, still thou hast
room to love another better. Hate and love! Thou great fool, it cannot
be!"

"Pascherette, I love thee. Thou'rt entangled in my heart-strings. When I
hate thee, it is because of that love, which will not brook treason in
thee. Again, I love thee, golden girl; but, forget it not, I worship
Dolores as I worship my gods!"

"Then wilt thou not seek her power for thyself?" whispered the girl
subduedly, awed for the moment by his tremendous and solemn earnestness.

"Little one, bring Sancho as she bade thee. He has merited punishment.
Yet tell him the Sultana will be just. His punishment will but fit the
fault. Afterward we two will talk together, and I shall teach thee
loyalty. Go now, bring thy man to the council hall. I shall await thee.
Stay, I shall come with thee, for the woods are dark, and a storm
threatens."

"I go alone, Milo. He will fly from thee. Have no fear for me; the woods
are safe, and the storm is in thy great head only."

The girl turned, kissed her hand airily, and ran into the gloom of the
forest. And as she went she laughed again harshly and muttered: "The
great clod! His worship overtops his love. But I shall make love overtop
worship yet, my giant! Such a man--a slave? Not for a thousand
Doloreses! Wait, Milo; wait, my mistress!"

The evening breeze had strengthened as darkness fell, and its breath was
hot and sultry. As Pascherette plunged deeper into the woods, the heavy
boom of the seas along shore died away and gave place to the softer,
more vibrant hum and murmur of the great trees. The track, little more
than a line of flattened underbrush, vanished before she had gone fifty
yards; but the little octoroon was no stranger to nocturnal rambles, her
keen eyes, and, keener still, her sense of direction, le