lvet, purple and crimson, lilac and pearl. Then from the
balcony, high up, unseen, the rhythm changed again like a flash, and
with it the national dance began.

At first the movements were slow, the steps graceful; the feet seemed
scarcely to move, barely gliding over the floor. One by one the
couples retreated, the last left alone; and then interchanging. The
music grew faster. In that moment, when they were left alone, the
Prince bent his head to the slim, swaying whiteness by his side:

"Why did you come so late?" he whispered, "Where were you?"

The Countess' hand was cold like ice. She drew it away and danced on;
then she whispered back:

"The Duke! Where is he to-night? He is not here! Why is the mazurka
so early, tell me."

They interchanged again.

"Hush," said the Prince, "You noticed?--Don't speak. He has gone to
the Tsar.--What is it? Are you ill?"

"He has--gone?"

"Dance, Countess, dance. Don't stop; are you mad? Come nearer.
Hush!--The Tsar sent for him, but he will be back at midnight. No one
must know."

The figure of the mazurka grew stranger and more complicated. When
they were thrown together again, the Countess lifted her blue eyes to
the eyes of the Prince. They seemed to look at her and yet to look
past her; they were crossed. She shivered slightly and turned her
head. Her white figure, slender and light as thistledown, floated away
from him, and then in a moment she was back, their hands had touched;
they were whirling together faster and faster, the tips of her slippers
scarcely touching the floor. She closed her eyes.

"You won't tell, not a soul, I can trust you?" whispered the Prince.
"Come closer, closer. There is a plot to-night. Boris told me. The
Secret Service men are everywhere, watching. Don't be frightened,
Countess--your hand is so cold. Can you hear me? Bend your head--so!
They hope to make arrests before he returns."

"When--when does he return?"

"Sh--h! At midnight. Dance faster, faster--Let yourself go!"

The music broke into a mad riot of rhythm; the violins seemed to run
races with one another in an intoxication of sound, pulsing,
penetrating, overpowering. The white figure twirled in the Prince's
arms, her gold hair a blot against the scarlet of his sleeve, faster
and faster. Her head drooped; her eyes closed again.

The rhythm was alive, tempting, subtle, like a madness in the veins;
and as they whirled, the rubato, dreamy, sudden