At home he found a party of young friends, who hailed with delight the

prospect of a revel at the Hall. An hour later, the blithe company

trooped into the great saloon, where preparations had already been made

for a dramatic evening.

Good Sir John was in his element, for he was never so happy as when his

house was full of young people. Several persons were chosen, and in a

few moments the curtains were withdrawn from the first of these

impromptu tableaux. A swarthy, darkly bearded man lay asleep on a tiger

skin, in the shadow of a tent. Oriental arms and drapery surrounded him;

an antique silver lamp burned dimly on a table where fruit lay heaped in

costly dishes, and wine shone redly in half-emptied goblets. Bending

over the sleeper was a woman robed with barbaric splendor. One hand

turned back the embroidered sleeve from the arm which held a scimitar;

one slender foot in a scarlet sandal was visible under the white tunic;

her purple mantle swept down from snowy shoulders; fillets of gold bound

her hair, and jewels shone on neck and arms. She was looking over her

shoulder toward the entrance of the tent, with a steady yet stealthy

look, so effective that for a moment the spectators held their breath,

as if they also heard a passing footstep.

"Who is it?" whispered Lucia, for the face was new to her.

"Jean Muir," answered Coventry, with an absorbed look.

"Impossible! She is small and fair," began Lucia, but a hasty "Hush, let

me look!" from her cousin silenced her.

Impossible as it seemed, he was right nevertheless; for Jean Muir it

was. She had darkened her skin, painted her eyebrows, disposed some wild

black locks over her fair hair, and thrown such an intensity of

expression into her eyes that they darkened and dilated till they were

as fierce as any southern eyes that ever flashed. Hatred, the deepest

and bitterest, was written on her sternly beautiful face, courage glowed

in her glance, power spoke in the nervous grip of the slender hand that

held the weapon, and the indomitable will of the woman was

expressed--even the firm pressure of the little foot half hidden in the

tiger skin.

"Oh, isn't she splendid?" cried Bella under her breath.

"She looks as if she'd use her sword well when the time comes," said

someone admiringly.

"Good night to Holofernes; his fate is certain," added another.

"He is the image of Sydney, with that beard on."

"Doesn't she look as if she really hated him?"

"Perhaps she does."

Coventry uttered the last exclamation, for the two which preceded it

suggested an explanation of the marvelous change in Jean. It was not all

art: the intense detestation mingled with a savage joy that the object

of her hatred was in her power was too perfect to be feigned; and having

the key to a part of her story, Coventry felt as if he caught a glimpse

of the truth. It was but a glimpse, however, for the curtain dropped

before he had half analyzed the significance of that strange face.




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