“So,” he said, slowly, with a sad smile, “your mother’s talisman was worth more than mine.  I have kept the lake pebbles she gave me, and death has passed me by; but the opals of the agraffe did not bring happiness to your mother.  It is said that those stones are unlucky.  Are you superstitious?”

“I should not be Tisza’s daughter if I did not believe a little in all that is romantic, fantastic, improbable, impossible even.  Besides, the opals are forgiven now:  for they have permitted me to show you that you were not unknown to me, Prince; and, as you see, I wear this dear agraffe always.  It has a double value to me, since it recalls the memory of my poor mother and the name of a hero.”

She spoke these words in grave, sweet accents, which seemed more melodious to Prince Andras than all the music of Baroness Dinati’s concert.  He divined that Marsa Laszlo found as much pleasure in speaking to him as he felt in listening.  As he gazed at her, a delicate flush spread over Marsa’s pale, rather melancholy face, tingeing even her little, shell-like ears, and making her cheeks glow with the soft, warm color of a peach.

Just at this moment the little Baroness came hastily up to them, and, with an assumed air of severity, began to reproach Marsa for neglecting the unfortunate musicians, suddenly breaking off to exclaim: 

“Really, you are a hundred times prettier than ever this evening, my dear Marsa.  What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Oh! it is because I am very happy, I suppose,” replied Marsa.

“Ah! my dear Prince,” and the Baroness broke into a merry peal of laughter, “it is you, O ever-conquering hero, who have worked this miracle.”

But, as if she had been too hasty in proclaiming aloud her happiness, the Tzigana suddenly frowned, a harsh, troubled look crept into her dark eyes, and her cheeks became pale as marble, while her gaze was fixed upon a tall young man who was crossing the salon and coming toward her.

Instinctively Andras Zilah followed her look.  Michel Menko was advancing to salute Marsa Laszlo, and take with affectionate respect the hand which Andras extended to him.

Marsa coldly returned the low bow of the young man, and took no part in the conversation which followed.  Menko remained but a few moments, evidently embarrassed at his reception; and after his departure, Zilah, who had noticed the Tzigana’s coldness, asked her if she knew his friend.

“Very well,” she said, in a peculiar tone.

“It would be difficult to imagine so from the way in which you received him,” said Andras, laughing.  “Poor Michel!  Have you any reason to be angry with him?”

“None.”