Wrath had burned the bonds of John Cabot’s hard-learned constraint. A fury of resentment over the subjection of Dolores controlled him. Supernatural might to avenge and save her seemed to come to him. Yet sudden as was his leap, strong its impetus, that which was material of his adversary had side-stepped neatly as though he were some mortal boxer in a squared circle. “Positively, you annoy me,” commented Satan from the far end of the dais. “You demon dog, your spite is nothing to my righteous rage!” Again John rushed the blasphemer with head lowered between his shoulders; seized and attempted to bear him down. But face forward he collapsed upon the steps. His will to kill was conquered by its own futility. Nothing--quite nothing was in his grasp. A chuckle caused his glance to lift. Nearby stood the Tormentor as though untouched. An opaque aura surrounded him. Thick fumes spread with his breath. Cabot staggered to his feet. All too soon the realization which Dolores had implored was being taught him. What matter how righteous the cause--how violent his will for avengement? This was Too-Late Land. Satan clapped his hands; commanded the guard. “Seize the fool. Throw him into the Den of the Demented. Get him into shape for particular torment. Out with him!” “_Wait._” At Dolores’ word the guardsmen halted their rush. John fixed his eyes upon the regal figure rising from the throne. With her rose-adorned staff, upraised like the scepter of the queen she had been declared, the girl-shade commanded silence. From her eyes, as from beacon candles behind dark panes, shone the light of determination. The time had come for her to test that early-morn resolve of matching her guile against that of His Satanic Majesty. The look she leveled upon him was too subtle for even his super-sense to define. “Has Your Lowness duly considered?” she asked him. “You say you never waste power. This shade has proved at least initiative.” “A powerful impudence, I call it, to break into our unhappy little home in this--ah--vehement manner and invite my intended, right before my eyes, to elope with him. He deserves the worst billet of the Hadean hordes.” “Granted, sire. But if you draft him, isn’t he likely to distinguish himself among your conquering heroes? Is there not a warning in his show of fight?” “Why a warning? What could he do?” “They tell me that the hold you have on your military is in the princely rewards offered to your veterans. And has the Great-I-Am Himself a better name for keeping His promises than you?” Crossing to him, Dolores met his combative look with an expression of affectionate concern.