THEIR little boy is dead

YOU filled his place.

HER voice sank almost to a breath.

I PLACED you in his cradle.

AN intolerable silence.

I LOVED your father

YOU never knew that he was a Portuguese n.o.bleman.

DID you ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply

IT was there that one by one all the pa.s.sions of love--hatred--revenge had torn my heart. He married and came to England--I followed--repulsed, ignored.

MY only weapon against him--was to contrive--the death--of his little son.

BUT to kill a child--

SHE caught a shuddering breath.

I COULD not--

I HID it securely.

ONCE again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that land of beauty--a crime to darken its perfection.

SO you belong to me--

YOU owe me much--

ALL that you can pay.

THE little sum of money he had in the Postal Savings rose into his mind--and gave him amazing steadiness

HIS voice sounded loud and full in his own ears

YOU lie! he shouted suddenly.

YOU lie! you fiend! Come into the daylight.

HE was tearing his mind free from the influence of the place, the shadows--the possessing voice of the woman.

SHE crouched back toward the door.

IT is you--you! she muttered accusingly.

NO, by Heaven, it's you! he cried. I see through you now

TWO men came running attracted by his loud voice

THEY lead the gypsy to a place of security

IT is you, she kept muttering to each in turn.

THE young man walked behind with straightened back and shining eyes.

CONFLICT

IT is night--a moonlight night in the Orient--

THE earth is flooded in mystic beauty--

MIDNIGHT songbirds in the trees.

AND the Palace of the Sultan--great marble halls--fountains of running water--moonlight shining in.

STRANGE, weird music of the desert played by slaves.

IT is the picturesque setting of a strange tale--a tale of inward struggle.

THE Sultan--lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East--softened by the night's mysterious light.

AMONG flowers and heavily-scented perfumes.

HIS dancing girls have left--his bronzed face--framed in black hair--his dark eyes--wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire--Life holds nothing new for him--only the continuation of old pleasures.

AT last a heavy portiere is lifted.

PERHAPS you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty--a slave--

THE girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European--a Russian of n.o.ble birth.

AMONG the palms of the Orient--almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan.

ONLY one of many, a pa.s.sionate love holds her there.

EVER following--pursuing, is the other self--the gentle nature, which understands neither pa.s.sion nor envy. The self which still fears and loves--yet--has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle nature whispers to the dominant one--

Lift yourself up and come away--I will lead you far from the moonlight--the overpowering perfumes--into the bleak light of day--peace will find you.

No--the stillness of the night--the kisses of my Sultan content me. But soon the inner voice cried so loud--even the moonlight could not quiet it.