er could see that her brain was working with the rapidity of
lightning. Then her glance passed to the figure at the doorway, and
with a gesture commanding and truly royal in its simplicity, she held
her hand forth, palm down, to the Inca king.

Like an obedient trained monkey he trotted across the intervening
space, grasped her soft white hand in his monstrous paw, and touched
his lips to her fingers.

That was all, but it spoke volumes to one who could divine the springs
of action. I remember that at the time there shot through my mind a
story I had heard concerning Desiree in Paris. The Duke of Bellarmine,
then her protector, had one evening entered her splendid apartment on
the Rue Jonteur--furnished, of course, by himself--and had found his
divinity entertaining one Jules Chavot, a young and beautiful poet.
Whereupon he had launched forth into the most bitter reproaches and
scornful denunciations.

"Monsieur," Desiree had said, with the look of a queen outraged, when
he had finished, "you are annoying. Little Chavot amuses me. You are
aware that I never refuse myself anything which I consider necessary to
my amusement, and just now I find you very dull."

And the noble duke, conquered by that glance of fire and those terrible
words, had retired with humble apologies, after receiving a gracious
permission to call on the following day!

In short, Desiree was irresistible; the subjection of the Inca king was
but another of her triumphs, and not the most remarkable.

And then I looked at Harry, and was aware of a new danger. He was
glaring at the Inca with eyes which told their own story of the fire
within, and which were waiting only for suspicion to become certainty.
I called to him:

"Harry! Hold fast!"

He glanced at me, gave a short laugh, and nodded.

Then came Desiree's voice, in a low tone of warning:

"On your knees!"

Her meaning was clear; it was to us she spoke. The king had turned
from her and was regarding us steadily with eyes so nearly closed that
their meaning was impenetrable. Harry and I glanced at each other and
remained standing. Then Desiree's voice again:

"Harry! If you love me!"

It was the appeal to a child; but love is young. Immediately Harry
dropped to his knees, facing the king; and I followed him, wondering at
myself. To this day I do not know what the compelling force was that
pulled me down. Was it another instance of the power of Desiree?

For perhaps a m