the object. He simply saw rivalry where fifteen minutes before he had thought his own course clear.

Milo appeared to them; carrying his sobbing burden, and the interruption brought a blaze of fury to Dolores’s face. She went pale, and her hands clenched and opened nervously.

“Well, slave?” she cried, and Milo started. Never had she used that tone to him.

“Sultana, I thought thou wert alone,” he replied, haltingly. “I have brought Pascherette to thee for forgiveness.”

“I forgive? Pish! What care I for thy chit? Take her where ye will, and trouble me not with such trash. Out, now! Let me not see her face again, and I care not what ye do with her. But haste. I have work for thee and a score of slaves. Bring them here quickly!”