He turned to Giselle, with a change to austere ten-

derness. "And you, little one, pray not to the God of priests and slaves, but to the God of orphans, of the oppressed, of the poor, of little children, to give thee a man like this one for a husband." His hand rested heavily for a moment on Nostro- rno's shoulder; then he went in. The hopeless slave of the San Tome* silver felt at these words the venom- ous fangs of jealousy biting deep into his heart. He was appalled by the novelty of the experience, by its force, by its physical intimacy. A husband! A hus- band for her! And yet it was natural that Giselle should have a husband at some time or other. . He had never realized that before. In discovering that her beauty could belong to another he felt as though he could kill this one of old Giorgio's daughters also. He muttered moodily: "They say you love Ramirez." She shook her head without looking at him. Cop- pery glints rippled to an,d fro on the wealth of her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had the soft, pure sheen of a priceless pearl in the splendor of the sunset, min- gling the gloom of starry spaces, the purple of the sea and the crimson of the sky in a magnificent stillness. "No," she said, slowly. "I never loved him. I think I never . . . He loves me perhaps." The seduction of her slow voice died out of the air, and her raised eyes remained fixed on nothing, as if indifferent and without thought. "Ramirez told you he loved you?" asked Nostromo,

restraining himself.