So far her determination had proved strong as desperate. What that victory were defeat? What that she slew this sturdy love of him she so longingly loved? The issue she must not--_dared_ not forget. To protect the great heart of John Cabot from those thoughts of despair which, like ceaseless drops of water on a stone, in time must wear away his hope; to spare him who had defied the first law of Mystery Land the realization of his own futility in the Lane of Labors; to keep his forehead clean of that brand more significant than the brand of Cain--the hate-sign of the Hadean hordes; in saving him to send him as her messenger to warn the Earth-blest of the Castling’s contemplated drive; through him to reach the ear of One said to be omnipotent and arouse Him from His lax protectorate---- Perhaps, if That Day was saved to righteousness, He would be told of her and how she had tried to do her part. As yesterday and to-day were so small a fraction of Eternity, with all life’s reparations possible in the vast vacuum of to-morrow, justice yet might be meted to Dolores. His Majesty, she knew, had attended each word of John’s plea. A single fault in the play of her part and her partial success would end in failure. Not long enough for one of his dart-like thoughts must she consider the soul-hurt to herself. She, whom so often he had twitted for her simplicity, had pitted her intelligence against the Master Mind. Far better not to have attempted the deceit if she did not deceive. John she silenced with a mocking laugh. His amazement she answered with assumed contempt. His protest she cut short with ridicule. “So you cannot progress for thought of me? Strange, when here in Gehenna I have out-progressed my _penchant_ for you! Yet until to-day I did not realize how sleazy your form would look to me or how weak would sound your mawkings. One’s taste is best cultured by contrast.” Her glance toward the King was eloquent interpretation. “Don’t reproach me with my shamelessness, I beg of you,” she anticipated him. “It is a point of pride with me. Away, you weary me! Let this convince you that my fancy for you died with my body.” She struck him with her jasper-like wand across the lips. At his low moan, the illusion of a red rose adorning its handle went out. Dolores, realizing that the light of his love also must have been snuffed, scarcely could repress an echo of his protest against her cruelty. Lest she fail in the climax of her triumph, she turned from the sight of him; sank into the prime minister’s chair. Her courage was reinforced when the dwarfs dragged Corporal Sam before the dais. The old soldier-soul’s shaken state from only a few hours of “special treatment” accented the necessity of his immediate release.