of making yourself scarce, do you come running after me . . .
and after Miss Bakefield?"

At Isabel's name, he suddenly blazed into fury:

"Miss Bakefield! My _fiancee_! Don't you know that I love her! Miss
Bakefield! Why, I've sworn by all the devils in hell that I would
bury my knife in the back of my rival, if ever one dared to come
forward. And you're the rival, are you, M. Dubosc? But, my poor fool,
you shouldn't have let yourself get caught!"

His eyes lit up with a cruel joy. He slowly raised his arm, while
gazing into Simon's eyes for the first appearance of mortal anguish.
But the moment had not yet come, for he suddenly stayed the movement
of his arm and sputtered:

"I have an idea! . . . An idea . . . not half a bad one! . . . No, not
half! Look here. . . . M. Dubosc must attend the little ceremony! He
will be glad to know that the lot of his dear Isabel is assured.
Patience, M. Dubosc!"

He exchanged a few words with his guards, who gave signs of their
hearty approval and were at once rewarded with glasses of champagne.
Then the preparations began. Three guards marched away, while the
other satellites seated the dead bodies in a circle, so as to form a
gallery of spectators round a small table which was placed upon the
platform.

Simon was one of the gallery. He was again gagged.

All these incidents occurred like the scenes of an incoherent play,
stage-managed and performed by madmen. It had no more sense than the
fantastic visions of a nightmare; and Simon felt hardly more alarmed
at knowing that his life was threatened than he would have felt joy at
seeing himself saved. He was living in an unreal world of shifting
figures.

The guard of honour fell in and presented arms. Rolleston took off his
diadem, as a man might take off his hat in sign of respect, and spread
his diamond-studded tunic on the deck, as people might spread flowers
beneath the feet of an advancing queen. The three attendants who had
been ordered away returned.

Behind them came a woman escorted by two coarse, red-faced viragoes.

Simon shuddered with despair; he had recognized Isabel, but so much
changed, so pale! She swayed as she walked, as though her limbs
refused to support her and as though her poor distressful eyes could
not see plainly. Yet she refused the aid of her companions. A male
prisoner followed her, held on a leash like the others. He was an old,
white-haired parson.

Rolleston hurried to meet her whom he c