ony, she leaned farther out; the flowers of the
vine, clambering up one of the supports, swayed gently around her, and
she started at the moist caress on her bare arm.

"It is cold here," she said, drawing back.

"Allow me--your wrap!" exclaimed the count, springing to her side with
great solicitude.

But she adjusted the garment without his assistance.

"You must be careful of your health--for the sake of your friends!"
Accompanying the words with a significant glance.

"The count is right!" interposed the elderly gentlewoman. "As he
usually is!" she added, laughing.

"Oh, Madam!" he said, bowing. "Miss Carew does not agree with you, I
am sure?" Turning to the girl.

"I haven't given the matter any thought," she replied, coldly. She
shivered slightly, nervously, and looked around.

At that moment the lights were turned on in the garden--another
surprise arranged by the Mistick Krewe!--illuminating trees and
shrubbery, and casting a sudden glare upon the balcony.

"Bravo!" said the count. "It's like a _fete-champetre_! And hear the
mandolins! Tra-la-la-la-la! Why, what is it?"

She had given a sudden cry and stood staring toward the right at the
back of the balcony. Within, the orchestra once more began to play,
and, as the strains of music were wafted to them, a host of
masqueraders started toward the ball-room. When the inflow of
merry-makers had ceased, bewildered, trembling, she looked with
blanched face toward the spot where the soldier had been standing, but
he was gone.

At that moment the cathedral clock began to strike--twelve times it
sounded, and, at the last stroke, the Mistick Krewe, one by one began
to disappear, vanishing as mysteriously as they had come. Pluto,
Proserpine, the Fates, fairies and harpies; Satan, Beelzebub; the
dwellers in pandemonium; the aids to appetite--all took their quick
departure, leaving the musicians and the guests of the evening,
including the visiting military, to their own pleasures and devices.
The first carnival had come to a close.

CHAPTER X

CONSTANCE AND THE SOLDIER

"Are you the clerk?" A well-modulated voice; a silvery crown of hair
leaning over the counter of the St. Charles; blue eyes, lighted with
unobtrusive inquiry.

The small, quiet-looking man addressed glanced up. "No," he said; "I
am the proprietor. This"--waving his hand to a resplendent-appearing
person--"is the clerk."

Whereupon the be-diamonded individual indicated (about who