Neenah led them through the wine cellars and down into the vaults beyond the dungeons.  They descended three steep flights of stone steps, into the cold, damp corridors of the lowermost cellars.  Neenah explained that it was necessary to move cautiously and without lights.  Selim was confident that there was at least one traitor among the servants.  The Princess clutched Chase’s hand tightly as they stole through the bleak, chill corridor; she found herself wondering if the girl was to be trusted.  What if she were leading them into a trap?  She would have whispered her fears into Chase’s ear had not a sharp “sh!” come from the girl who was leading.  Genevra felt a queer little throb of hatred for the girl—­she could not explain it.

The dungeon was off to the right.  They could hear the insistent murmur of voices, with now and then a laugh from the distant cells.  The guard could be heard scoffing at his charges.  With a caution that seemed wholly absurd to the two white people, Neenah guided them through the maze of narrow passages, dark as Erebus and chill as the grave.  Chase checked a hysterical impulse to laugh aloud at the proceedings; it was like playing at a children’s game.

He was walking between the two women, Neenah ahead, Genevra behind; each clasped one of his hands.  Suddenly he found himself experiencing an overpowering desire to exert the strength of his arm to draw the Princess close—­close to his insistent body.  The touch of her flesh, the clutch of her cold little hand, filled him with the most exquisite sense of possession; the magnetism of life charged from one to the other, striking fire to the blood; sex tingled in this delicious riot of the senses; all went to inspire and encourage the reckless joy that was mastering him.  He felt his arm grow taut with the irresistible impulse.  He was forgetting Neenah, forgetting himself—­thinking only of the opportunity and its fascination.  In another instant he would have drawn her hand to his lips:  Neenah came to a standstill and uttered a warning whisper.  Chase recovered himself with a mighty start, a chill as of one avoiding an unseen peril sweeping over him.  Genevra heard the sharp, painful intake of his breath and felt the sudden relaxation of his fingers.  She was not puzzled; she, too, had felt the magic of the touch and her blood was surging red; she knew, then, that she had been clasping his hand with a fervour that was as unmistakable as it was shameless.

She was again forgetting that princesses should dwell in the narrow realm of self.

Neenah may have felt the magnetic current that coursed through these surcharged creatures:  she was smiling mysteriously to herself.

“Wait here,” she whispered to Chase, ever so softly.  She released his hand and moved off in the blackness of the passage.  “I will bring Selim,” came back to them.

“Oh!” fell faintly, tremulously from Genevra’s lips.  It was a trap, after all!  But it was not the trap laid by a traitor.  She fell all a-quiver.  Her heart fluttered violently, her breath came quickly.  Alone with him—­and their blood leaping to the touch that thrilled!