thought upon the beauty
of his Unknown. He again entered the living streets, and bent his steps
toward the brightly illuminated ball-room, whence voices, and the
rattling of carriages, and now and then, between the pauses, the
clamorous music came sounding to his ears.

In the hall he was instantly lost amid the streaming throng; dancers
sprang round him, masks shot by him to and fro, kettle-drums and
trumpets deafened his ears, and it was unto him as though human life
were nothing but a dream. He walked along the lines; his eye alone was
watchful, seeking for those beloved eyes and that fair head with its
brown locks, for the sight of which he yearned to-day even more
intensely than at other times; and yet he inwardly reproached the adored
being for enduring to plunge into and lose itself in such a stormy sea
of confusion and folly. 'No,' said he to himself, 'no heart that loves
can lay itself open to this waste hubbub of noise, in which every
longing and every tear of love is scoffed and mocked at by the pealing
laughter of wild trumpets. The whispering of trees, the murmuring of
fountains, harp-tones, and gentle song gushing forth from an overflowing
bosom, are the sounds in which love abides. But this is the very
thundering and shouting of hell in the trance of its despair.'

He found not what he was seeking; for the belief that her beloved face
might perchance be lying hid behind some odious mask was what he could
not possibly bring himself to. Thrice already had he ranged up and down
the hall, and had vainly passed in array every sitting and unmasked
female, when the Spaniard joined him and said: 'I am glad that after all
you are come. You seem to be looking for your friend.'

Emilius had quite forgotten him: he said, however, in some confusion:
'Indeed I wonder at not having met him here; his mask is easily known.'

'Can you guess what the strange fellow is about?' answered the young
officer. 'He did not dance, or even remain half an hour in the
ball-room; for he soon met with his friend Anderson, who is just come
from the country. Their conversation fell upon literature. As Anderson
had not yet seen the new poem, Roderick would not rest till they had
opened one of the back rooms for him; and there he now is, sitting with
his companion beside a solitary taper, and declaiming the whole poem to
him, beginning with the invocation to the Muse.'

'It is just like him,' said Emilius; 'he is always the child of the