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The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. A paralyzing horror was upon her. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. "But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been.
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