an with whom Mauville had
conferred, at the door.

"All the better if the river's running wild!" answered the other. "It
will be easier running the guard."

"Yes," returned the Mexican, extending his hand, with a smile; "in
this case, there's safety in danger!"

"That's reassuring!" replied the land baron, lightly, as he descended
the stairs.

On reaching the floor below he was afforded a view through an open
door into a large room, lighted with many lamps, where a quadroon
dance, or "society ball," was in progress. After a moment's hesitation
he entered and stood in the glare, watching the waltzers. Around
the wall were dusky chaperons, guarding their charges with the
watchfulness of old dowagers protecting their daughters from the
advances of younger sons. Soft eyes flashed invitingly, graceful
figures passed, and the revelry momentarily attracted Mauville, as
he followed the movements of the waltzers and heard the strains of
music. Impulsively he approached a young woman whose complexion was
as light as his own and asked her to dance. The next moment they
were gliding to the dreamy rhythm around the room.

By a fatal trick of imagination, his thoughts wandered to the
dark-haired girl he had met in the Shadengo Valley. If this now were
she, the partner he had so unceremoniously summoned to his side. How
light were her feet; what poetry of motion was her dancing; what
pleasure the abandonment to which she had resigned herself!
Involuntarily he clasped more tightly the slender waist, and the dark
eyes, moved by that palpable caress, looked not unkindly into his own.
But at the glance he experienced a strange repulsion and started, as
if awakening from a fevered sleep, abruptly stopping in the dance, his
arm falling to his side. The girl looked at him half-shyly,
half-boldly, and the very beauty of her eyes--the deep, lustrous orbs
of a quadroon--smote him mockingly. He felt as though some light he
sought shone far beyond his ken; a light he saw, but could never
reach; ever before him, but always receding.

"Monsieur is tired?" said the girl, in a puzzled tone.

"Yes," he answered bluntly, leading her to a seat. "Good-night."

"Good-night," she replied, following his retreating figure with
something like regret.

The evening bells, distinct and mysterious, were sounding as he
emerged from New Orleans' _Mabille_, and their crystalline tones,
rising and falling on the solemn night, brought to mind his boyhood.