The Duke smiled again.  He stretched out his hand toward Honoria, and she slept.  It was the work of an instant.

“I have seen that before,” said Dalton.

“Not as we see it,” responded his Highness.  “Reve de Noir, less light!” The room was dark in a moment.  Over the head of Honoria appeared a cloud, at first black, and soon in this a nucleus of light, which expanded and shaped itself into an image and took the form of the sleeper, nude and spiritual, a belt of rosy mist enveloping and concealing all but a head and bust of ravishing beauty.  The vision gazed with languid and beseeching eyes upon Dalton, and a sigh seemed to heave the bosom.  In scarce a breathing-time, it was gone.  Honoria waked, unconscious of what had passed.

Deep terror and amazement fell upon us all.

“I have seen enough,” said Dalton, rising slowly, and drawing a small riding-whip, “to know now that this person is no duke, but either a charlatan or a devil.  In either case, since he has intruded here, to desecrate and degrade, I find it proper to apply a magic more material.”

At the word, all rose exclaiming,—­“For God’s sake, Dalton!” He pressed forward and laid his hand upon the Duke.  A cry burst from Reve de Noir which rent our very souls; and a flash followed, unspeakably bright, which revealed the demoniacal features of the Duke, who sat motionless, regarding Dalton’s uplifted arm.  A darkness followed, profound and palpable.  I listened in terror.  There was no sound.  Were we transformed?  Silence, darkness, still.  I closed my eyes, and opened them again.  A pale, cold light became slowly perceptible, stealing through a crevice, and revealing the walls and ceiling of my narrow room.  The dream still oppressed me.  I went to the window, and let in reality with the morning light.  Yet, for days after, the images of the real Honoria and Dalton, my friends, remained separated from the creatures of the vision; and the Denslow Palace of dreamland, the pictures, the revelry, and the magic of the Demon Duke haunted my memory, and kept with them all their visionary splendors and regrets.

MYRTLE FLOWERS

Since Love within my heart made nest,
  With the fond trust of brooding bird,
  I find no all-embracing word
To say how deeply I am blest.

Though wintry clouds are in the air
  And the dead leaves unburied lie,
  Nor open is the violet’s eye,
I see new beauty everywhere.

I walk beneath the naked trees,
  Where wild streams shiver as they pass,
  Yet in the sere and sighing grass
I hear a murmur as of bees,—­

The bees that in love’s morning rise
  From tender eyes and lips to drain,
  In ecstasies of blissful pain,
The sweets that bloomed in Paradise.

There twines a joy with every care
  That springs within this sacred ground;
  But, oh! to give what I have found
Doth thrill me with divine despair.