There was a sort of Oriental grace about Marsa, with her willowy figure, flexible as a Hindoo convolvulus, and her dark Arabian eyes fringed with their heavy lashes.  Michel Menko took in all the details of her beauty, and evidently suffered, suffered cruelly, his eyes invincibly attracted toward her.  In the midst of these other women, attired in robes of the last or the next fashion, of all the colors of the rainbow, Marsa, in her gown of black lace, was by far the loveliest of them all.  Michel watched her every movement; but she, quiet, as if a trifle weary, spoke but little, and only in answer to the Prince and Varhely, and, when her beautiful eyes met those of Menko, she turned them away, evidently avoiding his look with as much care as he sought hers.

The breakfast over, they rose from the table, the men lighting cigars, and the ladies seeking the mirrors in the cabin to rearrange their tresses disheveled by the wind.

The boat stopped at Marly until it was time for the lock to be opened, before proceeding to Maisons-Lafitte, where Marsa was to land.  Many of the passengers, with almost childish gayety, landed, and strolled about on the green bank.

Marsa was left alone, glad of the silence which reigned on the steamer after the noisy chatter of a moment ago.  She leaned over the side of the boat, listening idly to the swish of the water along its sides.

Michel Menko was evidently intending to approach her, and he had made a few steps toward her, when he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder.  He turned, thinking it was the Prince; but it was Yanski Varhely, who said to the young man: 

“Well, my dear Count, you did right to come from London to this fete.  Not only is Zilah delighted to see you, but the fantastic composition of the guests is very curious.  Baroness Dinati has furnished us with an ‘ollapodrida’ which would have pleased her husband.  There is a little of everything.  Doesn’t it astonish you?”

“No,” said Michel.  “This hybrid collection is representative of modern society.  I have met almost all these faces at Nice; they are to be seen everywhere.”

“To me,” retorted Yanski, in his guttural voice, “these people are phenomena.”

“Phenomena?  Not at all.  Life of to-day is so complicated that the most unexpected people and events find their place in it.  You have not lived, Varhely, or you have lived only for your idol, your country, and everything amazes you.  If you had, like me, wandered all over the world, you would not be astonished at anything; although, to tell the truth”—­and the young man’s voice became bitter, trenchant, and almost threatening—­“we have only to grow old to meet with terrible surprises, very hard to bear.”

As he spoke, he glanced, involuntarily perhaps, at Marsa Laszlo, leaning on the railing just below him.

“Oh! don’t speak of old age before you have passed through the trials that Zilah and I have,” responded Varhely.  “At eighteen, Andras Zilah could have said:  ‘I am old.’  He was in mourning at one and the same time for all his people and for our country.  But you!  You have grown up, my dear fellow, in happy times.  Austria, loosening her clutch, has permitted you to love and serve our cause at your ease.  You were born rich, you married the most charming of women”—­