She savagely bit her red lips in rage at my words; yet more, I thought, at her own forgetfulness.

“Pish! perhaps so;” and she stamped her foot angrily on the stone slabs of the floor.  “What does that prove to my discredit for you to harp upon?”

Why my accidental words should thus worry her I could not even guess.  Yet, clearly enough, there lay hidden some secret here—­a hideous secret I had harshly probed.  Believing this, I felt that I could enhance my power over her by pressing it relentlessly home with whatsoever directness of speech I dared to venture.  With me, at such a crisis, decision meant action, and I advanced a step nearer, looking her directly in the eyes.  A single moment she met me with a haughty stare; then defiance faded away into pleading, and her glance wavered.  Whatever the cause, she was clearly afraid.

“Who—­who are you?” she faltered.  “Surely we have never met before?”

“As you know already, I am Geoffrey Benteen.  I only regret that your memory is so faulty.”

“What is it you know of me?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, Madame,” and I threw into the utterance of these words all the irony possible.  “It is not altogether strange Madame should forget acquaintances of other days, even her native tongue, living so long in the wilderness.”

It was a reckless shot, but somehow it struck the mark.

“I am a Toltec!” she cried wildly.  “You speak to the Daughter of the Sun.”

“No doubt; ’tis a neat superstition with which to overawe savages, yet there was one once across the water greatly resembling you,—­a bit younger, perhaps,—­yet who was content then with a title not nearly so high-sounding, until—­oh, well, what need to tell the rest?  Of course, it was not you?”

I would never have believed so sudden a change could come over the countenance of a human being, had I not witnessed it with these eyes.  She had sunk back against the couch, her hands pressing her breast as if to still the wild throbbing of the heart, her great eyes staring at me in silent horror.  Twice her lips moved as if attempting speech, yet no articulated sound issued from between them.

“Are you a fiend from hell?” she sobbed at last.  “Why have you pursued me here?”

“You do me far too great an honor.”  I made her a low bow, thoroughly confident I held the whip hand, provided only I did not overplay my part.  “It is the merest accident of fate which has thus thrown me again across your path.  Nor have I the slightest desire to cause you trouble, only that through your power may come our safety.”

“You—­you have not followed me, then?”

“No.”

I saw she was diligently studying my face in the dim light, vainly endeavoring to recall where, under what circumstances, we had met before.

“Who are you?”

“Bah! what difference can a name make?  Surely you are careless enough about your own to be lenient with another choosing to forget.”