me?”

“They saw the small vessel while I was beyond the Tongue. They have not seen the ship I saw, nor have I told them. It is a great ship, lady; theirs is but a small, poor thing.”

“I will see it.” Dolores suddenly remembered the maid, whose presence she had ignored. Pascherette stood apart, a small, fairylike French octoroon, dainty as a golden thistledown; her full red lips were parted in eager inquisitiveness, and her slim, small body leaned forward, as if to catch every word; but at sight of her Dolores burst into knowing merriment, for the girl’s eyes told her story. They were fastened in intense, burning adoration, not on the mistress but on Milo, the giant slave.

“La-la, chit!” Dolores cried; “keep thy black eyes from my property.”