the new slaves in."
"I—I notice it not, mistress," faltered Satalu. "Why yes— of course." Sharane's voice was merciless. "See there he sits. A new slave; a strange slave who sleeps with open eyes."
"Yet he—he looks not like a slave," again faltered her handmaiden.
"No" questioned Sharane sweetly. "What has happened to your memory, girl? What is the badge of a slave?"
The black-haired girl did not answer; bent low over the locks of her mistress.
"A chain and the brand of whips," mocked Sharane. "These are the slave's badge. And this new slave has both—in plenty."
Still Kenton was silent beneath her mockery; made no movement; indeed scarce heard her, his burning eyes drinking in her beauty.
"Ah, but I dreamed one came to me with great words, a bearer of promises, fanning hope in my heart," sighed Sharane. "I opened my heart to him— in that dream, Satalu. All my heart! And he repaid me with lies—and his promises were empty—and he was a weakling—and my girls beat him. And now it seems to me that there sits that liar and weakling of my dreams with brand of whip upon his back and weak hands chained. A slave!"
"Mistress! Oh, Mistress!" whispered Satalu. But Kenton kept silence, although now her mockery began to sting.
And suddenly she rose, thrust hands through shining locks.
"Satalu," she murmured, "would you not think that sight of me would awaken even a slave? That any slave, so he were young and strong, would break his chains—for me?"
She swayed, turned; through her thin robes gleamed exquisite, rosy curves of breast and thigh; lithe loveliness. She spread wide the nets of her hair, peered through them at him with wanton eyes; preened herself, thrust out a tiny, rosy foot, a dimpled knee.
He raised his head recklessly, the hot blood rushing through.
"The chains will break, Sharane!" he called. "I will break them— never fear! And then——"
"And then—" she echoed, "and then my girls shall beat you as before!" she mocked, and sped away.
He watched her go, pulse beating like drums. He saw her halt and whisper to Satalu. The black-haired girl turned, made him a warning gesture. He closed his eyes, dropped head on arm. And soon he heard the feet of Zachel striding down the steps, go by him. The waking whistle shrilled.
Why, if her mockery had been real, had she warned him?
Sharane looked down upon him again from her deck.
Time had gone by since she had stood there mocking him. Time had gone, but how measured in his own lost world Kenton had no means of telling, meshed as he was in the ship's timeless web.
Sleep after sleep he had lain on his bench, watching for her. She had kept to her cabin—or if she had not, she had kept herself from his sight.
Nor had he told the Viking that he had broken the spell of the sleep horn. Sigurd he trusted, heart and soul. Yet he was not sure of the Norseman's subtlety; not certain that he could feign the charmed slumber as Kenton did. He could not take the risk.
And now again Sharane stood and looked down upon him from the platform close to the emerald mast. The slaves slept. There was none at watch on the black deck. There was no mockery now in Sharane's face. And when she spoke she struck straight home to the heart of her purpose.
"Whoever you are, whatever you may be," she whispered, "two things can you do. Cross the barrier. Remain awake when the other slaves must sleep. You have told me that you can break your chains. Since those two things you can do—I find belief within me that of the third you also speak the truth. Unless——"
She paused; he read her thought.
"Unless I lied to you about that as I lied to you before," he said levelly. "Well, those were no lies I told you."
"If you break your chains," she said, "will you slay Klaneth?"
He feigned to consider.
"Why should I kill Klaneth?" he asked at last.
"Why? Why?" Scorn tinged her voice. "Has he not set his chains upon you? Had you whipped? Made you slave?"
"Did not Sharane drive me forth with javelins?" he asked. "Did not Sharane pour salt in my wounds with her mockery—her laughter?"
"But—you lied to me!" she cried.
Again he feigned consideration.
"What will this liar, weakling, and slave gain if he kills the black priest for you?" he asked bluntly.
"Gain?" she repeated blankly.
"What will you pay me for it?" he said.
"Pay you? Pay you! Oh!" The scorn in her eyes scorched him. "You shall be paid. You shall have freedom—the pick of my jewels—all of them——"
"Freedom I shall have when I have slain Klaneth," he answered. "And of what use to me are your jewels on this cursed ship?"
"You do not understand," she said. "The black priest slain, I can set you on any land you wish in this world. In all of them jewels have value."
She paused, then: "And have they no worth in that land from whence you come, and to which, unchained, it seems you can return whenever danger threatens?"
Her voice was honeyed poison. But Kenton only laughed.
"What more do you want?" she asked. "If they be not enough—what more?"
"You!" he said.
"Me!" she gasped incredulously. "I give myself to any man—for a price! I—give myself to you! You whipped dog!" She stormed. "Never!"
Up to this Kenton's play with her had been calculated; but now he spoke with wrath as real and hot as hers.
"No!" cried Kenton. "No! You'll not give yourself to me! For, by God, Sharane, I'll take you!"
He thrust a clenched, chained hand out to her.
"Master of this ship I'll be, and with no help from you—you who have called me a liar and slave and now would throw me butcher's pay. No! When I master the ship it will be by my own hand. And that same hand shall master—you!"
"You threaten me!" Her face flamed wrath. "You!"
She thrust a hand into her breast, drew out a slender knife—hurled it at him. As though it had struck some adamantine wall, invisible, it clanged, fell to her feet, blade snapped from hilt.
She paled, shrank.
"Hate me!" jeered Kenton. "Hate me, Sharane; For what is hate but the flame that cleans the cup for wine of love!"
With no soft closing of her cabin door did she go within it. And Kenton, laughing grimly, bent his head over his oar; was soon as sound asleep as the Norseman snoring beside him.
