madame," he resumed, with gestures and intonations suitable for
the scene. "Behole! It is I who have lofe you so long. To lofe--ah,
it is so divine! How can you riffuse?"

Madame Donatelli withdrew with proper operatic dignity. "Never!" she
cried. "You have sufficiently persecuted me ere this. I bid you go.
Begone!"

"Vooman, you mad meh!" cried Peruchini, rushing forward, his hands
first extended with palms upward, then clenched, his hair properly
tumbled, his eyes correctly rolling. "I vill not be teniet! Your
puty, it is too much! Vooman, vooman, ah, have you no harret? Py
Heaven, I--"

With a swift motion he grasped her wrists. Color rose to the Donatelli
cheek. Her eyes flashed. She was about to sing. She checked herself
in time. "Unhand me, sir!" she cried.

The two wrestled back and forth, their hands intertwined. And now the
log fire, seeing the lack of better footlights, blazed up loyally to
light for them this unusual stage. They did not hear the door open
behind them, did not hear the click of high bootheels on the floor, as
there came toward them an unbidden spectator, who had by some slack
servant been directed thither.

The door did open. In it stood Tom Osby, unannounced. He was dressed
in his best, which was not quite so picturesque as his worst, but which
did not disguise him nor the region which was his home. His boots were
new, sharp at toe and heel. His hat, now removed, was new, but wide
and white. His coat was loose, and under it there was no waistcoat,
neither did white collar confine his neck.

A quick glance took in the scene before him. A little dark man was
contending with a superb female of the most regally imperious beauty
that he had ever seen or dreamed. Tom Osby stepped a swift pace into
the room. There had come to his ear the note of a rich, deep voice
that brought an instant conviction. This--this was the Voice that he
had worshipped! This was that divine being whom he had heard and seen
in so many sweet imaginings in the hot days and sweet, silent nights
afar in the desert lands. She was assailed. She was beset. There
swept over him the swift instinct for action which was a part of life
in that comer of the world. In a flash his weapon leaped from its
scabbard, and an unwavering, shining silver point covered the figure of
this little, dark man, now obviously guilty of sacrilege unspeakable.

"Git back, you feller'" cried Tom Osby. "Leggo! What