“Lady,” said he, with a warning gesture, “you are in peril!” “Peril!” she exclaimed.  “And of what nature?”

“There is a certain maiden,” replied the magician, “who has come out of the realm of mystery, and made herself your most intimate companion.  Now, the fates have so ordained it, that, whether by her own will or no, this stranger is your deadliest enemy.  In love, in worldly fortune, in all your pursuit of happiness, she is doomed to fling a blight over your prospects.  There is but one possibility of thwarting her disastrous influence.”

“Then tell me that one method,” said the lady.

“Take this veil,” he answered, holding forth the silvery texture.  “It is a spell; it is a powerful enchantment, which I wrought for her sake, and beneath which she was once my prisoner.  Throw it, at unawares, over the head of this secret foe, stamp your foot, and cry, ‘Arise, Magician!  Here is the Veiled Lady!’ and immediately I will rise up through the earth, and seize her; and from that moment you are safe!”

So the lady took the silvery veil, which was like woven air, or like some substance airier than nothing, and that would float upward and be lost among the clouds, were she once to let it go.  Returning homeward, she found the shadowy girl amid the knot of visionary transcendentalists, who were still seeking for the better life.  She was joyous now, and had a rose-bloom in her cheeks, and was one of the prettiest creatures, and seemed one of the happiest, that the world could show.  But the lady stole noiselessly behind her and threw the veil over her head.  As the slight, ethereal texture sank inevitably down over her figure, the poor girl strove to raise it, and met her dear friend’s eyes with one glance of mortal terror, and deep, deep reproach.  It could not change her purpose.

“Arise, Magician!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot upon the earth.  “Here is the Veiled Lady!”

At the word, up rose the bearded man in the Oriental robes,—­the beautiful, the dark magician, who had bartered away his soul!  He threw his arms around the Veiled Lady, and she was his bond-slave for evermore!

Zenobia, all this while, had been holding the piece of gauze, and so managed it as greatly to increase the dramatic effect of the legend at those points where the magic veil was to be described.  Arriving at the catastrophe, and uttering the fatal words, she flung the gauze over Priscilla’s head; and for an instant her auditors held their breath, half expecting, I verily believe, that the magician would start up through the floor, and carry off our poor little friend before our eyes.

As for Priscilla, she stood droopingly in the midst of us, making no attempt to remove the veil.

“How do you find yourself, my love?” said Zenobia, lifting a corner of the gauze, and peeping beneath it with a mischievous smile.  “Ah, the dear little soul!  Why, she is really going to faint!  Mr. Coverdale, Mr. Coverdale, pray bring a glass of water!”