linger to look at the motley dresses displayed all the
way up the marble steps, one of the richest settings in the world,
allowed no facetious mask to draw him into a war of wits, replied to no
jests and shook off the bold familiarity of a number of couples who had
already become a trifle too gay. Crossing the big crush-room and
escaping from a mad whirl of dancers in which he was caught for a
moment, he at last entered the room mentioned in Christine's letter.
He found it crammed; for this small space was the point where all those
who were going to supper in the Rotunda crossed those who were
returning from taking a glass of champagne. The fun, here, waxed fast
and furious.

Raoul leaned against a door-post and waited. He did not wait long. A
black domino passed and gave a quick squeeze to the tips of his
fingers. He understood that it was she and followed her:

"Is that you, Christine?" he asked, between his teeth.

The black domino turned round promptly and raised her finger to her
lips, no doubt to warn him not to mention her name again. Raoul
continued to follow her in silence.

He was afraid of losing her, after meeting her again in such strange
circumstances. His grudge against her was gone. He no longer doubted
that she had "nothing to reproach herself with," however peculiar and
inexplicable her conduct might seem. He was ready to make any display
of clemency, forgiveness or cowardice. He was in love. And, no doubt,
he would soon receive a very natural explanation of her curious absence.

The black domino turned back from time to time to see if the white
domino was still following.

As Raoul once more passed through the great crush-room, this time in
the wake of his guide, he could not help noticing a group crowding
round a person whose disguise, eccentric air and gruesome appearance
were causing a sensation. It was a man dressed all in scarlet, with a
huge hat and feathers on the top of a wonderful death's head. From his
shoulders hung an immense red-velvet cloak, which trailed along the
floor like a king's train; and on this cloak was embroidered, in gold
letters, which every one read and repeated aloud, "Don't touch me! I
am Red Death stalking abroad!"

Then one, greatly daring, did try to touch him ... but a skeleton hand
shot out of a crimson sleeve and violently seized the rash one's wrist;
and he, feeling the clutch of the knucklebones, the furious grasp of
Death, uttered a cry of