“Thee, my heart. Thou’rt my god, my all. For thee I have done this thing. For thee, who even now canst not see where lies the falsity. Milo” — her weak voice sank to a low murmur — ”I beg thy forgiveness. My love for thee caused me to sin. My life is to pay the supreme price. Let me die at least in thy forgiveness.”

“Forgive? Forgive thee, who worked for the destruction of the being I worship? Rather shall I speed thy soul!”

Pascherette struggled to a kneeling position, crossed her tiny hands on her panting breast, and looked full into his eyes as a wounded hart looks at the hunter. Her lip quivered, her small, gold-tinted face, once so piquant and full of allure, had taken on a gray hue from her pain, but there was no hiding the