“I have no fear of him, gentlemen,” said the Duke, patting the head of the hound; “he is a faithful servant, and has a faculty of reading thoughts.  Go bring my servant, Demon,” said the Duke.

The hound sprang away with a great bound, and in an instant Reve de Noir was standing behind us.  The dog did not appear again.

Honoria looked bewildered.  “Of what dog were you speaking, Edward?”

“The hound that licked your face.”

“You are joking.  I saw no hound.”

“See, gentlemen,” exclaimed Lethal, “his Highness shows us tricks.  He is a wizard.”

The three women gave little shrieks,—­half pleasure, half terror.

Denslow, who had fallen back in his chair asleep, awoke and rubbed his eyes.

“What is all this, Honoria?”

“That his Highness is a wizard,” she said, with a forced laugh, glancing at Dalton.

“Will his Highness do us the honor to lay aside the mask, and appear in his true colors?” said Dalton, returning Honoria’s glance with an encouraging look.

“Gentlemen,” said the Duke, haughtily, “I am your guest, and by hospitality protected from insult.”

“Insult, most noble Duke!” exclaimed Lethal, with a sneer,—­“impossible, under the roof of our friend, the Honorable Walter Denslow, in the small hours of the night, and in the presence of the finest women in the world.  Dalton, pray, reassure his Highness!”

“Edward!  Edward!” murmured Honoria, “have a care,—­even if it be as you think.”

Dalton remained bland and collected.

“Pardon, my Lord, the effect of a little wine, and of those wonderful fantasies you have shown us.  Your dog, your servant, and yourself interest us equally; the picture, the ring,—­all are wonderful.  In supposing that you had assumed a mask, and one so noble, I was led into an error by these miracles, expecting no less than a translation of yourself into the person of some famous wonder-worker.  It is, you know, a day of miracles, and even kings have their salaried seers, and take counsel of the spiritual world.  More!—­let us have more!”

The circle were amazed; the spirit of superstitious curiosity seized upon them.

“Reve de Noir,” said the Duke, “a carafe, and less light.”

The candelabra became dim.  The Duke took the carafe of water from the valet, and, standing up, poured it upon the air; it broke into flames, which mounted and floated away, singly or in little crowds.  Still the Duke poured, and dashing up the water with his hand, by and by the ceiling was illuminated with a thousand miniature tongues of violet-colored fire.  We clapped our hands, and applauded,—­“Beautiful I marvellous! wonderful, Duke!—­your Highness is the only magician,”—­when, on a sudden, the flames disappeared and the lights rose again.

“The world is weary of skepticism,” remarked Lethal; “there is no chemistry for that.  It is the true magic, doubtless,—­recovered from antiquity by his Highness.  Are the wonders exhausted?”