Dalton pressed his lips hard together.

“Come,” said he, “De Vere, let us try a fall with this Titan of the carpet.”

Denslow hastened back to the Duke.  I followed Dalton; but as for me, bah! 
I am a cipher.

The room in which we were adjoined Honoria’s boudoir, from which a secret passage led down by a spiral to a panel behind hangings; raising these, one could enter the drawing-room unobserved.  Dalton paused midway in the secret passage, and through a loop or narrow window concealed by architectural ornaments, and which overlooked the great drawing-rooms, made a reconnaissance of the field.

Nights of Venice! what a scene was there!  The vine-branch chandeliers, crystal-fruited, which depended from the slender ribs of the ceiling, cast a rosy dawn of light, deepening the green and crimson of draperies and carpets, making an air like sunrise in the bowers of a forest.  Form and order were everywhere visible, though unobtrusive.  Arch beyond arch, to fourth apartments, lessening in dimension, with increase of wealth;—­ groups of beautiful women, on either hand, seated or half reclined; the pure or rich hues of their robes blending imperceptibly, or in gorgeous contrasts, with the soft outlines and colors of their supports; a banquet for the eyes and the mind; the perfect work of art and culture;—­gliding about and among these, or, with others, springing and revolving in that monarch of all measures, which blends luxury and purity, until it is either the one or the other, moved the men.

“That is my work,” exclaimed Dalton, unconsciously.

“Not all, I think.”

“I mean the combinations,—­the effect.  But see!  Honoria will again accept the Duke’s invitation.  He is coming to her.  Let us prevent it.”

He slipped away; and I, remaining at my post of observation, saw him, an instant later, passing quickly across the floor among the dancers, toward Honoria.  The Duke of Rosecouleur arrived at the same instant before her.  She smiled sorrowfully upon Dalton, and held out her hand in a languid manner toward the Duke, and again they floated away upon the eddies of the music.  I followed them with eyes fixed in admiration.  It was a vision of the orgies of Olympus,—­Zeus and Aphrodite circling to a theme of Chronos.

Had Honoria tasted of the Indian drug, the weed of paradise?  Her eyes, fixed upon the Duke’s, shone like molten sapphires.  A tress of chestnut hair, escaping from the diamond coronet, sprang lovingly forward and twined itself over her white shoulder and still fairer bosom.  Tints like flitting clouds, Titianic, the mystery and despair of art, disclosed to the intelligent eye the feeling that mastered her spirit and her sense.  Admirable beauty!  Unrivalled, unhappy!  The Phidian idol of gold and ivory, into which a demon had entered, overthrown, and the worshippers gazing on it with a scorn unmixed with pity!

The sullen animal rage of battle is nothing to the livor, the burning hatred of the drawing-room.  Dalton, defeated, cast a glance of deadly hostility on the Duke.  Nor was it lost.  While the waltz continued, for ten minutes, he stood motionless.  Fearing some untoward event, I came down and took my place near him.