to such scenes, simply chattered and smiled pityingly, not with pity for the men, but for the futility of their resistance. Milo, scarcely breathing above normal, called loudly: “Pascherette!” and gave his prisoners another quieting squeeze.

Pascherette was with her mistress. She did not answer, and Milo called again: “Pascherette!”

The other women drew near, and on many a wickedly fair face shone a light of hope that its wearer might serve in Pascherette’s place, no matter what the errand; for it was not the petite golden octoroon alone who had sighed for love of the giant.

“Pascherette is with the Sultana, Milo. Let me answer for her,” spoke out a dark beauty whose sparkling eyes held the craft and wisdom of a harpy.