in this little palm I
kiss!"

By the sounds from within she must have struggled in vain. I told
myself:

"Not yet, not yet!"

"In such fashion my ancestor Bothwell wooed Mary Queen of Scots. Fain
she would, but dare not. She knew he was a man and a lover out of ten
thousand, and though her heart beat fast for him she was afraid. She
fled, and he followed. For he was a lover not to be denied, though a
king must die to clear the road. So it is with Boris, my queen."

"You mean----?"

The catch in her voice told me she breathed fast.

He laughed, with that soft boisterousness that marked his merriment.

"Your mad Irishman is no king, but he has crossed my path enough. Next
time he dies."

"Because he has tried to serve me!"

"Because he is in my way. Reason enough for me."

The door knob was in my hand. All I had to do was to open it and shoot
the man dead. But what after that? His men would swarm down and murder
me before the eyes of my love. And she would be left alone with a pack
of wolves which had already tasted blood.

It was the hardest ordeal of my life to keep quiet while the fellow
pressed his hateful suit, pushed it with the passionate ardor of the
Slav, regardless of her tears, her despair, and her helplessness.

For an hour--to make a guess at the time--she fought with all the
weapons a woman has at command, fending him off as best she could with
tears and sighs and entreaties.

Then I heard a man stumbling down the ladder and moved aside. If he
should turn my way I was a dead man, for he must come plump against me.
He knocked on the door of the cabin.

Bothwell opened and whispered with him a moment, then excused himself to
his cousin, locked the door, and followed the sailor up to the deck.

I unlocked the door softly and walked into the cabin. By the dim light
of a hanging lantern I made out a rough room furnished only with two
bunks, one above the other, a deal table, and two cheap chairs.

Evelyn had not heard me enter. She was standing with her back to me,
leaning against the woodwork of the bed, her face buried in one arm.
Despair and weariness showed in every line of the slight, drooping
figure.

She must have heard me as I moved. She turned, the deep shadowy eyes
gleaming with fear. Never have I seen the soul's terror more vividly
flung to the surface.

I suppose that for a moment she could not believe that it was I, and not
Bothwell. Perhaps she thought the ghost of me had com