“I make John die a second death before your eyes, in order that he be regenerated unto sin. I crunch to dust the bones of his spirit. I tear to bits the sinews of his soul. When you see him an unrecognizable heap in the morgue of Gehenna, will you like me, do you suppose now, more or less?” At her failure to reply, he sauntered toward the nearest mirror; there carefully adjusted his red cravat. Evidently reassured by the magnificence of his reflection, he added amiably enough: “That Judge Strang was no more a sport than am I. He took a long chance on you after one short look. After the some few looks I’ve had, I’ll take a longer one. What say you, fair fiend? Be a sport, too. Come, let’s make it a bet!” Her response was a worded moan. “Why, John--_why_ did you come?” For a moment His Majesty considered the drooping, dusk-crowned head. “Evidently,” he made remark to whom it might concern, “she doesn’t consider mine a betting proposition.” As if suddenly aware of the hellion guard cluttering the great room, he amused himself driving them back against the highly-charged curtains. John Cabot mounted the dais steps; removed the girl-soul’s hands from her face; held them while he bent to look into her eyes. “You are my mate,” he said. “You have been tried--tempted, perhaps. But I believe in you. You swore once to believe in me. Do you remember? Come with me, Dolores. Let me fight your way up to the Fields as I fought mine down. Have courage to come.” “I’d only hold you back,” she sighed. “The harder the fight, the dearer the victory,” he urged. “And we should be together. Does that mean nothing to you? Whatever your fate, I should feel honored to share it--to serve you through Eternity in atonement. Where faith lives there is love.” “Faith?” A rasping sob shook her--or was it a laugh? “Faith, he says, is the fear of fools.” “Faith is fear? I do not understand.” “Yes. Fools pretend faith because they fear. But nobody really believes in anything down here. Everybody fears--fears despair. He’ll never let me go. You must leave me if you can. Lean low and listen. Later you’ll understand.” She caught his arm; shook like a reed with her whisper. “God sacrificed his only begotten Son, they say, to try to save the world. You must sacrifice your hope of me to try to save----” “_Damn you!_” The curse was addressed to the king--the first Dolores ever had heard from the lips of John Cabot. Satan had approached soundlessly; with his charged forefinger and thumb had flicked the intruder on the brow. “Save your vitriol. I’m already damned,” he answered with consummate insolence. John, blinking confusedly, straightened. The impulses of his late life still controlled him. With the flash of a puma’s instinct, he leaped upon the First of Fiends. CHAPTER XXVIII