treasure from her greedy grasp, and make of her what she has made of thee and me — a slave!”

“Girl!” Milo’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!”