And to-night the Duke of St. James was, as he had been for some weeks,
all life, and fire, and excitement; and his eye was even now wandering
round the room in quest of some consummate spirit whom he might summon
to his Saracenic Paradise.
A consummate spirit his eye lighted on. There stood May Dacre. He gasped
for breath. He turned pale. It was only for a moment, and his emotion
was unperceived. There she stood, beautiful as when she first glanced
before him; there she stood, with all her imperial graces; and all
surrounding splendour seemed to fade away before her dazzling presence,
like mournful spirits of a lower world before a radiant creature of the
sky.
She was speaking with her sunlight smile to a young man whose appearance
attracted his notice. He was dressed entirely in black, rather short,
but slenderly made; sallow, but clear, with long black curls and a
Murillo face, and looked altogether like a young Jesuit or a Venetian
official by Giorgone or Titian. His countenance was reserved and his
manner not easy: yet, on the whole, his face indicated intellect and his
figure blood.
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