ting
familiarly with the landlord and a young hussar. The stranger was
dressed like a cavalry officer, and was the most astounding fop that
the two Americans had ever seen. He paced up and down, head erect,
chest thrown out, sabre clanking, spurs jingling, eyes sparkling,
ineffable smile. He strode up to the two youths, spun round on one
heel, bowed to the ground, waved his hand patronizingly, and welcomed
them in.

"A charming night, gallant gentlemen. A bewitching night. All Naples
is alive. All the world is going. Are you?"

The young men stared, and coldly asked where?

"Ha, ha, ha!" A merry peal of laughter rang out. "Absolutely--if the
young Americans are not stupid. They don't know me!"

"Dolores!" exclaimed Buttons.

"Yes," exclaimed the other. "How do you like me? Am I natural?--eh?
military? Do I look terrible?"

And Dolores skipped up and down with a strut beyond description,
breathing hard and frowning.

"If you look so fierce you will frighten us away," said Buttons.

"How do I look, now?" she said, standing full before him with folded
arms, _a la_ Napoleon at St. Helena.

"Bellissima! Bellissima!" said Buttons, in unfeigned admiration.

"Ah!" ejaculated Dolores, smacking her lips, and puffing out her
little dimpled cheeks. "Oh!" and her eyes sparkled more brightly with
perfect joy and self-contentment.

"And what is all this for?"

"Is it possible that you do not know?"

"I have no idea."

"Then listen. It is at the Royal Opera-house. It will be the greatest
masquerade ball ever given."

"Oh--a masquerade ball!--and you?"

"I? I go as a handsome young officer to break the hearts of the
ladies, and have such rare sport. My brave cousin, yonder gallant
soldier, goes with me."

The brave cousin, who was a big, heavy-headed fellow, grinned in
acknowledgment, but said nothing.

The Royal Opera-house at Naples is the largest, the grandest, and the
most capacious in the world. An immense stage, an enormous pit all
thrown into one vast room, surrounded by innumerable boxes, all
rising, tier above tier--myriads of dancers, myriads of masks,
myriads of spectators--so the scene appeared. Moreover, the Neapolitan
is a born buffoon. Nowhere is he so natural as at a masquerade. The
music, the crowd, the brilliant lights, the incessant motion are all
intoxication to this impressible being.

The Senator lent the countenance of his presence--not from curiosity,
but from benevolent desire to keep