they bear, handing to him glittering swords and golden
chains, ostrich plumes, and Turkish scymitars, which, in memory of the
day, he distributes among his guests. Sometimes he stops to take a
chalice from the hands of a page, and wets his lips with Tokay, greeting
his guests as he moves courteously on, wishing to warm all with the
sunshine of his own happiness.

* * * * *

He enters now the central dome of the castle, lined with exotic trees
and perfumed plants; the vaulted roof is corniced with wrought marble,
emblazoned with escutcheons of his ancestors, unsullied, glorious, holy!
Stopping at the entrance, he looks for his child: she is not among the
dancers, nor in the throngs of the spectators. The bridegroom is indeed
there, amusing himself with the various beauties present; and, for the
second time in this happy day, the forehead of the old man lowers in
grief or anger. He makes his way through the crowd, passes on through
the orange trees, in the niches between which stand the now deserted
seats rich in broidered tapestry. He lingers among them seeking his
child, when he suddenly stops as if stricken with fierce pain. He has
found her now; she is sitting quite alone, gazing sadly on a bunch of
roses lying on her knee: dreamily she picks off the perfumed leaves,
until the bare stems and thorns alone remain in her fragile hands. The
old man silently approaches her. Suppressing his emotion, he says, with
gentle voice:

'How happy thy poor mother would have been to-day, my daughter! Ah, why
was it not the will of God she should have blessed this bridal hour!'

She raises her head, crushing the remains of the roses in her trembling
hands, and in her confusion tries to fasten them on the hem of her
dress: the sharp little stems plant themselves there, but stain its snow
with the blood they had torn from the unconscious fingers.

'Why weepest thou, my child? It cannot surely be the memory of thy
mother which so moves thee: thou hast never seen her--she went to the
fathers in the very hour in which thou camest to me. Look, daughter,
thou woundest thyself!'

He takes her hand in his, and softly draws from it the sharp thorns.

'O father, it is not that which pains me! Forgive me--it is that--only
that, my father.'

She stands silently before him--great tears were falling slowly down her
cheeks. He leans heavily upon her arm:

'Thou must support me now, child, for I grow old and f