and gripped Pascherette tightly by the arm.

“This is a trick, little devil! Don’t you value that pretty little head more than to trifle with me?”

“I trifle with thee? Thou art mad, Sancho!” she cried. “Did I lie when I said I loved thee, then?”

“The fiend knows! I know ‘tis plaguey risky for thee if thou didst!”

“Unbeliever!” whispered Pascherette with thrilling emphasis. “Shall I tell thee again, in language even thy stubborn soul must believe?”

The girl suddenly glided inside his arms, flung up her hands, each clutching a mass of her glossy, scented hair, and enmeshed his disfigured face.