CHAPTER VII.
THE BEAUTIFUL TIGRESS.
John Craig dreams.

He fancies himself bathing with demon apes in the wilds of Africa, having read an explorer's account of such a scene very recently.
They press him hard, and he can see no hope of escaping with his life.
In the midst of his mental torture he opens his eyes, and the disagreeable features of the case are suddenly swept away.
Where can he be?
Soft music throbs upon the scented air, he hears the gentle plash of a fountain in a court near by; a mellow light, anything but garish, shows him the most luxurious surroundings, silks and velvets, brightness in color and gorgeousness in taste, everywhere.
This amazes him; almost takes his breath away; it is so different from his dream, which left him in a desperate hole.
His mind seems dull of comprehension, which must be the effect of the drug, so that for a brief time he is unable to understand the situation, or grasp his condition.
Then it dawns upon him, the mission that took him away from the hotel; and having reached that point, he is wrestling with what must have followed when something touches his face, something that is cool and pleasant--the soft, white hand of a woman.
Then Doctor Chicago's eyes flash open again, and he looks up startled; he has just recollected Lady Ruth's story, and a wild hope rushes into existence, a hope that could not be put into words, but which takes the form of an idea that she whom the English girl met as Sister Magdalen, his mother, is near.
He looks up; his eyes fall upon a face that boasts of extreme beauty, a face of wondrous black eyes and cheeks aflame, a face that, set in sable coils of hair, would drive an artist wild with the desire to transfer its charms to canvas.
And John Craig, strange man, frowns.
Evidently there is something in his composition that prevents him from accepting what the prodigal gods have thrown in his path.
"You ?" he says, bluntly, and with disdain.
The woman with the black eyes smiles sweetly as she continues to soothingly touch his forehead, which throbs and burns as though he endures the keenest pain.
"Did you imagine it could be any other, my dear John?
You deserted me, but I believe you failed to know your own mind.

At any rate I have determined not to desert you." "Pauline, you do not--it is impossible for you to care for me after what has happened." "Impossible! Why should it be?
I can't help myself.

I have seen others profess to love me, have played with them as a queen might with her subjects who prostrated themselves before her.

Yet, John Craig, I never loved but once.