a shudder, of all her cruel suffering, of all that she
hated and which had weighed upon her like a nightmare. She thirsted for
a different air, where no phantom of the past could pursue her, where
she should feel free, where her life should belong entirely to him.

"I will go and take off this gown," she murmured, rising, "and we will
run away like two eloping lovers."

"Take off that gown? Why? It would be such a pity! You are so lovely as
you are!"

"Well," said Marsa, glancing down upon him with an almost mutinous
smile, which lent a peculiar charm to her beauty, "I will not change
this white gown, then; a mantle thrown over it will do. And you will
take your wife in her bridal dress to Paris, my Prince, my hero--my
husband!"

He rose, threw his arms about her, and, holding her close to his heart,
pressed one long, silent kiss upon the exquisite lips of his beautiful
Tzigana.

She gently disengaged herself from his embrace, with a shivering sigh;
and, going slowly toward the door, she turned, and threw him a kiss,
saying:

"I will come back soon, my Andras!"

And, although wishing to go for her mantle, nevertheless she still
stood there, with her eyes fixed upon the Prince and her mouth sweetly
tremulous with a passion of feeling, as if she could not tear herself
away.

The piano upon which Andras had cast the package given him by Varhely
was there between them; and the Prince advanced a step or two, leaning
his hand upon the ebony cover. As Marsa approached for a last embrace
before disappearing on her errand, her glance fell mechanically upon the
small package sealed with red wax; and, as she read, in the handwriting
she knew so well, the address of the Prince and the signature of Michel
Menko, she raised her eyes violently to the face of Prince Zilah, as if
to see if this were not a trap; if, in placing this envelope within her
view, he were not trying to prove her. There was in her look fright,
sudden, instinctive fright, a fright which turned her very lips to
ashes; and she recoiled, her eyes returning fascinated to the package,
while Andras, surprised at the unexpected expression of the Tzigana's
convulsed features, exclaimed, in alarm:

"What is it, Marsa? What is the matter?" "I--I"

She tried to smile.

"Nothing--I do not know! I--"

She made a desperate effort to look him in the face; but she could not
remove her eyes from that sealed package bearing the name Menko.

Ah! that Michel! She