They snuggled close.

Ooooooh, awful close!

Throbs palpitant and passionate passed from one to the other—strong, vertiginous, terrific, as of an aching tooth.

“Tell me, Amut,” she said more softly than she ever knew she could, “who after all the dickens are you?”

His blue eyes sparkling like opals in their ardor, looked down upon her with a tenderness too ineffable to matriculate. But he sighed and was silent.

“And—and why do you hate the English?”

“Hate the English? With you in my arms, sweet Verbie? Hate the English! Only I used to, Verbeena mine—used to. But——”

“Who—who are you? Amut, as you love me speak!”

“I——”

“You——”