Then her thin lips spoke a single sentence in the sharp tone of command.
Instantly burst forth a fierce roar of disapproval; war-clubs pounded the floor, spears rattled as they were brandished overhead, while above the din I caught, again and again, the shriek, "_Francais_! _Francais_!" The Queen shook her head, her fair face darkening, and glanced aside into the questioning eyes of De Noyan.

Below them the tumult increased, the mass surging forward and staring upward, every voice yelping that one term of hate, "_Francais_!" There was no doubting the dread menace--they were demanding French victims for the torture of sacrifice; they clamored for white blood with which to sprinkle the altar.

I could dimly perceive now a dozen crouching slaves against the farther wall, the whites of their eyes showing in terror, and--oh, God!--there, to the right of them, alone, except for her burly guards, kneeling on the rock floor, with face hidden in her hands, was Eloise.

I half rose to my feet, my whole body pulsating with agony.

What was to be the ending?
What was that mad woman's purpose?
Could she control the fierce blood-lust of those savage fanatics?
If she cared to do so, would she dare test her power in so desperate a game?
If one must be sacrificed which would she spare, De Noyan or his hapless wife?
Looking at her, cold, cynical, lustful, her eyes still turned on his face, I felt no doubt.