Her eyes held on the distant curtain. Its alternating electric stripes were writhing like snakes, as if tormented by a wind stronger than its dynamo.
“At least, passion is not. Undying passion—that would be something new even to you, eh? Do you remember, siren, my mention of an ‘experiment’?”
Dolores, at the look that was lapping her face, shrank back into the throne chair. At the burn of his hands as they pressed her outline from waist to shoulders, a scream broke from control. But even as she was impelled forward and down, her terror became exorcised by the lure in the look of him. That most destructive of all forces—the brute force of evil thought—bent her knees; loosened her clutch of the chair-arms; drew downward her face. Almost had her lips met his in a loathing, yet longing soul-caress——
The semi-gloom was lit by many kilowatts of light. The curtain was torn apart. From the entrance door a tall man-spirit fought his way. A cursing demon pack surrounded him. To his legs clung the dwarfs of the Gehennan gate. Lightnings from the storm without followed him, as steel slivers follow a magnet. Disheveled, wild of eye from the fury of his fight, unannounced and undeterred, he forced his way to the dais steps.
“At last—John!”
Sad from the very intensity of her gladness rang the bell tones of Dolores’ salutation. At sight of her beloved she had found herself; had broken the evil spell put upon her; had risen from the throne. She stood with hands outstretched, a visualization of that composite called a woman’s heart. Ethereal as the fabric of her gown shone her face and forehead. Rose red as the mesh of rubies that girdled her glowed her lips. And from the deep purple of her eyes all mystery cleared—a royal revelation.
But John Cabot did not accept the invitation of her hands. He did not ascend the steps. In silence he returned her gaze. In his ears still rang the scream which had brought him strength to worst the hellion guards. His mind hurt from the sobs of the love-lad and Innocentia, huddled in horror outside the door. His eyes saw only the picture hung before his entry of a lady downbent and a kneeling knight, their lips about to meet.
He lifted his regard to the magnificent figure looming negligently behind the throne-chair. Gray eyes met black, a soundless clash of iron and steel.
Satan snapped the pause. “So—you have joined us, after all?”
“Sir,” said John, “you have the advantage over me.”