“Ladies?  Oh, that is most unfortunate!  The ladies’ chamber is all upset, and every other room is engaged.  They will be compelled to wait fully an hour.”

“That will not inconvenience us, Monsieur,” said a voice from the window of the diligence, “provided we may have something hot to drink; wines and hot water, with a dash of sugar and brandy.  Come, my dear; and don’t forget your mask.”

“How disappointing that the hotel was closed!  Well, we can put up with the tavern till morning.”

With some difficulty the two women alighted and entered the common assembly room, followed by the postilion who staggered under bulky portmanteaus.  They approached the fire unconcernedly, ignoring the attention which their entrance aroused.  The youngest gave a slight scream as the Iroquois rose abruptly and moved away from the chimney.

“Holy Virgin!” Anne cried, clutching Gabrielle’s arm; “it is an Indian!” The vision of quiet in a Quebec convent grew vague.

“Hush! he would not be here if he were dangerous.”  Gabrielle turned her grey-masked face toward the fire and rested a hand on the broad mantel.

Victor, who had taken a table which sat in the shadow and who was trying by the aid of champagne to forget the tragic scene of the hour gone, came near to wasting a glass of that divine nectar of Nepenthe.  He brushed his eyes and held a palm to his ear.  “That voice!” he murmured.  “It is not possible!”

At this same moment the vicomte turned his head, his face describing an expression of doubt and astonishment.  He was like a man trying to recollect the sound of a forgotten voice, a melody.  He stared at the two figures, the one of medium height, slender and elegant, the other plump and small, at the grey mask and then at the black.  These were not masks of coquetry and larking, masks which begin at the brow and end at the lips:  they were curtained.  Seized, by an impulse, occult or mechanic, the vicomte rose and drew near.  The younger woman made a gesture.  Was it of recognition?  The vicomte could not say.  But he saw her lean toward her companion, whisper a word which caused the grey mask to wheel quickly.  She seemed to grow taller, while a repelling light flashed from the eyeholes of the grey mask.

“Mesdames,” said the vicomte with elaborate courtesy, “the sight of the Indian doubtless alarms you, but he is perfectly harmless.  Permit a gentleman to offer his services to two ladies who appear to be traveling alone.”

Father Chaumonot frowned from his chair and would have risen but for the restraining hand of Bouchard, who, like all seamen, was fond of gallantry.

“Monsieur,” replied the black mask, coldly and impudently, “we are indeed alone; and upon the strength of this assertion, will you not resume your conversation with yonder gentlemen and allow my companion and myself to continue ours?”

“Mademoiselle,” said the vicomte eagerly, “I swear to you, that your voice is familiar to my ears.”  He addressed the black mask, but he looked searchingly at the grey.  His reward was small.  She maintained under his scrutiny an icy, motionless dignity.