Doctor Charlie Keene, speaking from under the disguise of the Indian Queen, had indeed so said; but the Recording Angel, whom we understand to be particular about those things, had immediately made a memorandum of it to the debit of Doctor Keene’s account.

“If I had believed that it was he,” continued the whisperer, “I would have turned about and left him in the midst of the contra-dance!”

Behind them sat unmasked a well-aged pair, “bredouille,” as they used to say of the wall-flowers, with that look of blissful repose which marks the married and established Creole.  The lady in monk’s attire turned about in her chair and leaned back to laugh with these.  The passing maskers looked that way, with a certain instinct that there was beauty under those two costumes.  As they did so, they saw the Fille a la Cassette join in this over-shoulder conversation.  A moment later, they saw the old gentleman protector and the Fille a la Cassette rising to the dance.  And when presently the distant passers took a final backward glance, that same Lieutenant of Dragoons had returned and he and the little Monk were once more upon the floor, waiting for the music.

“But your late companion?” said the voice in the cowl.

“My Indian Queen?” asked the Creole Epaminondas.

“Say, rather, your Medicine-Man,” archly replied the Monk.

“In these times,” responded the Cavalier, “a medicine-man cannot dance long without professional interruption, even when he dances for a charitable object.  He has been called to two relapsed patients.”  The music struck up; the speaker addressed himself to the dance; but the lady did not respond.

“Do dragoons ever moralize?” she asked.

“They do more,” replied her partner; “sometimes, when beauty’s enjoyment of the ball is drawing toward its twilight, they catch its pleasant melancholy, and confess; will the good father sit in the confessional?”

The pair turned slowly about and moved toward the box from which they had come, the lady remaining silent; but just as they were entering she half withdrew her arm from his, and, confronting him with a rich sparkle of the eyes within the immobile mask of the monk, said: 

“Why should the conscience of one poor little monk carry all the frivolity of this ball?  I have a right to dance, if I wish.  I give you my word, Monsieur Dragoon, I dance only for the benefit of the sick and the destitute.  It is you men—­you dragoons and others—­who will not help them without a compensation in this sort of nonsense.  Why should we shrive you when you ought to burn?”

“Then lead us to the altar,” said the Dragoon.

“Pardon, sir,” she retorted, her words entangled with a musical, open-hearted laugh, “I am not going in that direction.”  She cast her glance around the ball-room.  “As you say, it is the twilight of the ball; I am looking for the evening star,—­that is, my little Huguenotte.”