e clusters of rose leaves strewn on the steps. The
perfume was intoxicating, languorous. Light trills as of laughter and
snatches of talk, gay and fleeting, mingled with the rhythm of the
violins.

The ball was at its height.

In an arch of the stair-case stood a young officer. He was leaning
nonchalantly against the carved balustrade; the scarlet and gold of his
uniform shone against a green background of palms, distinguishing his
broad shoulders from among the rest. The palms screened him as in a
niche.

The officer was swarthy of complexion with a short, black mustache, and
his eyes, small and near together, roamed carelessly over the throng.
As the groups approached the head of the stair-case, one after the
other, he saluted smiling, half heeding, and his eyes roved on still
more carelessly; sometimes they crossed.

Whenever they crossed, his eyes would remain fixed, intent, for a
moment, on some one advancing to the foot of the stair-case, eagerly
watching as the form came nearer and nearer. Then the muscles relaxed.
He frowned impatiently, tapping his sword against the carvings.

"Hiss-s-t--Prince Michel!"

The whisper came from behind the leaves of the palms and they swayed
slightly, trembling as from a movement, or a breath.

The officer started, turning his black eyes swiftly, fiercely on the
green, and then looked away again.

"Ha, Boris!" he muttered, hardly moving his lips, "How you come
creeping behind one!--What is it, a message?"

"Hist-st! Speak low."

The voice was like the faint murmur of crickets on a hot summer's day.
"The Duke has gone."

"Gone? What! The devil he has!"

"Sh-h!--not five minutes ago! A message came from the Tsar himself.
He has just slipped away."

The officer gazed straight ahead of him smiling, and bowed to a couple
ascending the stair-case. His lips parted as if in greeting. "Did he
send you to tell me?"

"No, the Duchess. She has made some excuse and is receiving alone. No
one suspects, not yet; but the guests must be diverted, or else--"

"Be still, Boris, be still, you shake the leaves like a bull. When
will he return?"

"By midnight, Prince. Could you start the mazurka at once?"

"Presently, Boris. Go and tell my mother I will--presently. The
Countess is late, unaccountably late! Is the snow heavy to-night on
the quay; are the sledges blocked? Hiss-st!--There she comes!"

The trembling of the leaves ceased suddenly and the young offi