splendid instrument of terror — formed of plaited human hair of as many shades as thongs, studded with nuggets of gold instead of lead — and none the less terrible for that — set in a cunningly carved handle of ivory. And as Milo entered, she held the whip aloft in a quivering hand, and cried to Pascherette:

“Speak, or I flay thee, traitor! What wert telling the villain, Sancho?”

Pascherette whined and cringed; she could not, or would not speak. The whip quivered, was about to fall on those dainty bare shoulders, when Milo, uttering a choking cry, flung himself forward and took the blow on his face. Dolores started back, a thing of fury, as Milo cast himself at her feet, his head on the ground, and said with