Desire for an heir-apparent to his throne of late had grown in him. Could she not imagine the outcome of his ambition--a youthful demon born to dominance, bred to brutality, schooled to undreamt possibilities of fiendishness? Strong as steel in mental culpability, he should have the “chance” denied his self-made sire. Never should he know, hence should not fear defeat. With a super-divine intolerance, he would accept and hold his sovereignty. Although of the spirit, he should inherit a talent for strong visibility, taking his form from his father and from his mother a subtlety of appeal such as god nor man yet had possessed. A beauty of countenance irresistible should be his--features of marble pale as the ghosts of Dolores’ victims--lips that quivered from the very delicacy of the lies they lied, eyes that veiled in mists of mercy the utmost truculence. Could she not see the child of his imagination? Let her open wide those crime-dark eyes of hers; to-night let his moth-like fancies bask in their purple flame. When he, leaning against her, lifted himself to try his thought, the bride-soul clutched her forehead and shuddered back among the pillows as if to shield brain, as well as eyes. Yet even to her own ears her protest sounded both sincere and false. “You must be mad--_mad_--to dream of such a thing.” Was not the inspiration of all dreams mere madness? he asked her. And was not that love which he aspired to feel the first symptom of mental derangement? As for love’s climax--as for passion---- Always had he envied mortal men their carnal appetites. There was nothing to being the King of Evil if he couldn’t have all the vices. For æons had he hankered to glut himself with food, and drink distorted images into his mind. Now he hankered---- Oh, by no means to weaken himself with this love over which she oh’d and ah’d! Really, though, didn’t it seem too bad that he who had invented loveless lust and incited it daily in a million earthlings, should enjoy it only vicariously? Even before she had come to Shadow Land, he confessed, he had felt the need of a second-worst emotion. That night of the tale of her surrender to John Cabot he’d decided on its nature. To think of the thousands of years he’d wasted! To have been the two ultimates, archangel and arch-fiend, without having been intermediate man! As the lasciviousness of his look intensified, Dolores realized in herself a certain sympathy. Appalled by its drawing power, she reminded herself that only chaste aspirations might conquer the crave for evil to which all mankind is heir. Her lips formed to the names of her quondam guardian companions. “Innocentia, I do not wish to know these dreadful things. Save me from the knowledge, dear, _dear_ Amor.”