"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 explosive condition of her crew; she had no mistaken ideas that for her to load up the schooner and sail away was simple. Further, she detected in recent events a growing unrest among the band, the cause of which she had but begun to fathom. Even now, through the tapestry sounding-stone, her keenly attuned ears caught a note in the cries of returning woods parties that told her how precarious was her sway over some of the more turbulent spirits.
"Before me they cringe like the dogs they are," she muttered, halting again at the mirror. "Behind my back they snap like wolves. They shall have their lesson quickly—such a one as the boldest of them shall shriek mercy." She gazed intently into the mirror, as if she would read therein an answer to her unspoken longing; then her eyes grew dark and hard; her round, strong chin set stubbornly, and she whispered intensely: "Pah! Cattle! They shall not alter my will to seek my rightful place in the world of the white man! What avails it that in my veins runs my mother's noble blood, the red chief's fiery courage, if this nest of soulless brutes is to witness my life and my end? Among those three white men is one who shall release me. They—ah, they are of a whiter, cleaner mold! Theirs is the blood that matches mine! Let them show me which is the stronger. He shall mate with me, and I will make him a king indeed, even in his own land."
Dolores stepped back panting. Then she controlled herself and began to put on garment after garment, jewel after jewel, all of superlative magnificence. Every moment she glided to the great mirror; as often she tore off a garment or a jewel, flung it down impatiently, and seized others from her boundless store. At last she stood clad like a fabled daughter of old Bagdad; a robe of shimmering silk reached her ankles, outlining every grace of her splendid figure; upon her head she had set a tiara, priceless with gems whose fire dazzled even their wearer; on arms and fingers, ankles and toes, lustrous rings and bracelets made flashing lightning with her every movement; at her girdled waist was a dagger whose sheath could have ransomed a prince.
She stood like a statue, except for the rise and fall of her breast; her eyes glittered at her gorgeous reflection in the mirror. Then suddenly her expression changed, her lips parted in scorn, and with a savage, tigerish gesture, she tore off her splendors. She stood once more in her simple tunic of knee-length, sleeveless, beauty-revealing; and picking up her dagger with the gold cord she knotted it about her waist and again regarded herself closely.
And where before she had looked upon a gorgeous woman, royally clad, weighted with gems formed by man's art, now she gazed into the limpid, fathomless eyes of a living goddess—royally clad in her own peerless loveliness, crowned with a wealth of lustrous hair in which the gleams of gold outshone the tiara she had discarded. And her face lighted; a delicate flush overspread her cheeks; the full, luscious red lips parted in a veritable Cupid's bow; and she laughed a rippling, heart-warming laugh that brought the small, even teeth glistening into view.
Dolores was satisfied at last. Without further hesitation she hurried along to the rear of the chamber and emerged into the Grove of Mysteries by way of a door known only to herself and Milo. From there she made her way silently and darkly toward the council hall.
CHAPTER X.
A REED SHAKEN BY THE WINDS OF PASSION.
Rupert Venner sat on the floor of his prison, tugging at his chains with an absent, aimless, all but perpetual motion; for he had long since convinced himself that his fetters could not be broken or loosed. The ruby light that had shown him the food and wine placed for him had faded away to the faintest red glow which scarcely sufficed to reach the tabouret. That mattered little; Venner had eaten when he was hungry, drunk when dry, and knew the position of the flagon and dish to the ultimate inch. He was not caring about the light. His mind was filled to the exclusion of all else with his plight and the predicament of his schooner.
"Confound me for a fool!" he mused aloud, gritting his teeth savagely. "Led by the nose by a saucy little chit who knows how to display her charms as well as her pearls!"