behind them. Then she sprang up, ran to a great mirror, and stood for many moments regarding her lovely reflection.

“Yes, thou art beautiful!” she apostrophised. “Beautiful as an artist’s dream. And for what? To queen it over these beasts! To be called Sultana, and to be in truth a caged eagle. Of them all, who save loyal Milo may I trust? Of them all, where is one whose blood mixed with mine could produce aught but devils! Yet I must slink away in the night like a whipped cur, or leave behind these treasures which alone can secure me station in the outside world.” She began to pace the great apartment, oblivious of her surroundings, conscious only of a surging rebellion against even the small necessity of biding her time. The day’s happenings on the schooner had shown her clearly the