She leaned yet farther forward, as though seeking to penetrate the shadow concealing his face, a perceptible tremor apparent in her voice.

“Who are you?  Answer me!”

“I am called Father Ignatius, a priest of the Order of Jesuits.”

“And what do you suppose I care for your Romish orders?  They have no power here; a single wave of my hand would condemn you to the place of yonder slaves.”  Her color rose in the wave of passion, sweeping fear aside.  “I have nothing but hatred for your black robe, and your interference only intensifies my purpose.  Mark you now what I say; if it be the will of my people to put this cringing French woman to the torture, I lift not so much as a finger to change her fate.  More, because of your insolence I give you also into their hands.  We take no orders from the Church of Rome.”

“Your people!” the words rang forth with such clearness as almost to bring me to my feet.  “You foul fiend of hell, do you think thus to impose your vile imposture on me?  I fear neither your power nor the cruelty of your savage satellites.  My life is in the hands of my Master, who will give me strength to mock your torture.  Two months ago I was bound to a stake in the valley below.  Ask these fiends, who do your bidding, whether I shrank back in terror, or made outcry as the flame ate into my flesh.  Gaze on these stumps blackened by fire, and learn how I value your threats.  Peace, woman, and no longer mock the faith of your childhood.”

“My childhood?  You know nothing of that!”

“Do I not?  Look upon my face, and judge.”

He flung back his cowl, and the light fell full upon his countenance.  Upon the silence broke a sharp cry, in which fear and surprise were strangely blended: 

“Andre Lafossier!”

“Right, woman; you have not forgotten.  Sunk as you are in shame and evil deeds, conscience yet lives and haunts you.  What do I know of you?  Enough to justify calling you joint heir with all the fiends of hell, unless, like the thief on the Cross, repentance make white your black soul.  Yet, ’tis in my heart that yours is the sin against the Spirit for which there is no forgiveness.  Nothing in your face tells me of an awakening soul.  You are a Queen, you say?  Ay, of evil, of devils incarnate.  I would rather be this poor woman bound to the stake than you upon a throne.  Do your worst with us, but know that Andre Lafossier has nothing for you save disgust; still, as priest of Holy Church, I hold open the door of salvation through Jesus Christ.”

Evidences of struggle marked Naladi’s face, yet by now she had outwardly conquered the first shock of recognition, and stood a cold, stately statue, with glittering eyes on the slender figure of the priest.

“I care as little for your Romish mummery,” she said sneeringly, “as I do for the senseless rites of these savages.  But I am glad it is you I have in my power.  If I am the queen of devils, they serve me well.  You are to die, Andre Lafossier.  I might have spared you had you kept your tongue, but after those words you die.  I shall stand here and mock you to the last breath.  You say I have no soul; to-night you shall know it true while I laugh at your agony.”