And you?
You are grand and noble, a milor Inglese, and you take her love--her crazy worship--as a demi-god might, with uplifted grace, as your birthright; and she is your pretty toy of an hour.

And then careless and happy, you are gone.
Sunny Spain, with its olives and its vineyards, its pomegranates and its Zenith the Gitana, is left far behind, and you are roaming, happy and free, through La Belle France.

And lo! Zenith the forsaken lies prone upon the ground, and goes stark mad for the day-god she has lost.
There, Sir Jasper Kingsland! the record is a black one.

I wish to read no more." He flung the baronet's hand away, and once more his eyes glowed like the orbs of a demon.

But Sir Jasper Kingsland, pale as a dead man, saw it not.
"Are you man or devil ?" he said, in an awe-struck tone.