Prisoners of Chance

Evidences of struggle marked Naladi's face, yet by now she had outwardly conquered the first shock of recognition, and stood a cold, stately statue, with glittering eyes on the slender figure of the priest.

"I care as little for your Romish mummery," she said sneeringly, "as I do for the senseless rites of these savages. But I am glad it is you I have in my power. If I am the queen of devils, they serve me well. You are to die, André Lafossier. I might have spared you had you kept your tongue, but after those words you die. I shall stand here and mock you to the last breath. You say I have no soul; to-night you shall know it true while I laugh at your agony."

She paused as if seeking to mark the effect of her words, but the père merely stooped slightly, whispering some message of comfort into the ear of Eloise. Then he stood erect again.

"As you will, woman; to die for Christ is gain."

The face of Naladi, which had been pale and drawn, flushed, her eyes fairly blazing.

"So you dare mock me, you hireling priest!" she hissed. "'T is not for long; I am no snivelling French girl, afraid of blood. And now I give you a taste of my power."

As the words fell from her thin lips, she flung up one hand, exhibiting with a peculiar gesture a glittering metallic substance shining in the light. It must have been a signal for unrestrained sacrifice, for it was greeted with fierce howls of delight, the savage herd pressing in upon the prisoners, so that I lost sight of them an instant in the crush.

"Wait, woman!" rose the priest's voice above the uproar. "I admit your power here to take physical life; I expect no mercy from such as you. But, if you be not lost to all shame, grant me one favor, Marie Fousard."

"What?"

"A moment of time in which I may give absolution to this child of God before we die."

"Pish! is that all? Go on with your fool mummery. I will hold back the savages till that be done, though the sight of it will but anger them."

Eloise had sunk down against the altar, with face buried in her hands. The père dropped upon his knees beside her. About them surged the glistening forms of the savages, maddened with blood-lust, but Naladi clapped her hands, with voice and gesture bidding them wait her further word. An instant they swayed passionately back and forth, their fanatical priests clamoring in opposition to this halting of vengeance. Then Naladi shook loose her hair, permitting its wealth to fall in a golden-red shower, until it veiled her from head to foot. The silenced crowd stared as if in worship of the supernatural. I know not what she said, uplifting her white arms from out that red-gold canopy, yet I can guess.