which everything else instantly became nothing--set
his gaze. On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have already
described, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent
an icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre
Philosophe. Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound loosely
about at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; a
bright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and a
necklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty.

An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of the
speechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneously
comprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions. Yet her
gaze did not change.

The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all in
African b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of command
from her mistress.

In Frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to be
neither trifled with nor contemned. And this again the quadroon
discerned, before he was himself aware of it.

"Doctor Keene"--he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes.

She did not stir or reply.

Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat.

At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along her
glance; it gave the apothecary speech.

"The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound."

She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for a
moment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her hand
toward a chair near a comfortable fire.

He sat down. It would be well to dry himself. He drew near the hearth
and let his gaze fall into the fire. When he presently lifted his eyes
and looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she was
regarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence and
scrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration. Hard
rubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary. But she presently
suppressed the feeling. She hated men.

But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent her
hostility. This monument of the shame of two races--this poisonous
blossom of crime growing out of crime--this final, unanswerable white
man's accuser--this would-be murderess--what ranks and companies would
have to stand up in the Great Day with her and answer as accessory
before the fact! He looked again i