replaced by a softened, humbled expression that wrung Milo’s heart-strings.

“Will ye not kiss me now, Milo?” she whispered, with a pearly drop brimming from each eye, where laughter had so lately dwelt.

“Pascherette, thy fault was great,” he answered, yet in his face was a look so forgiving, so excusing, that the girl shivered expectantly and closed her eyes with a happy sigh.

Yet the kiss was not given. From the great chamber the angry voice of Dolores rang out.

“Milo! Where art thou, slave!”

And the giant tenderly laid Pascherette down again, and ran in answer.

“Sultana?”