“Polixena, I love you!” he cried.

A blush swept over her throat and bosom, bathing her in light to the verge of her troubled brows.

“I love you!  I love you!” he repeated.

And now she was on his breast again, and all their youth was in their lips.  But her embrace was as fleeting as a bird’s poise and before he knew it he clasped empty air, and half the room was between them.

She was holding up a little coral charm and laughing.  “I took it from your fob,” she said.  “It is of no value, is it?  And I shall not get any of the money, you know.”

She continued to laugh strangely, and the rouge burned like fire in her ashen face.

“What are you talking of?” he said.

“They never give me anything but the clothes I wear.  And I shall never see you again, Anthony!” She gave him a dreadful look.  “Oh, my poor boy, my poor love—­’_ I love you, I love you, Polixena!_’”

He thought she had turned light-headed, and advanced to her with soothing words; but she held him quietly at arm’s length, and as he gazed he read the truth in her face.

He fell back from her, and a sob broke from him as he bowed his head on his hands.

“Only, for God’s sake, have the money ready, or there may be foul play here,” she said.

As she spoke there was a great tramping of steps outside and a burst of voices on the threshold.

“It is all a lie,” she gasped out, “about my marriage, and the Marquess, and the Ambassador, and the Senator—­but not, oh, not about your danger in this place—­or about my love,” she breathed to him.  And as the key rattled in the door she laid her lips on his brow.

The key rattled, and the door swung open—­but the black-cassocked gentleman who stepped in, though a priest indeed, was no votary of idolatrous rites, but that sound orthodox divine, the Reverend Ozias Mounce, looking very much perturbed at his surroundings, and very much on the alert for the Scarlet Woman.  He was supported, to his evident relief, by the captain of the Hepzibah B., and the procession was closed by an escort of stern-looking fellows in cocked hats and small-swords, who led between them Tony’s late friends the magnificoes, now as sorry a looking company as the law ever landed in her net.

The captain strode briskly into the room, uttering a grunt of satisfaction as he clapped eyes on Tony.

“So, Mr. Bracknell,” said he, “you have been seeing the Carnival with this pack of mummers, have you?  And this is where your pleasuring has landed you?  H’m—­a pretty establishment, and a pretty lady at the head of it.”  He glanced about the apartment and doffed his hat with mock ceremony to Polixena, who faced him like a princess.

“Why, my girl,” said he, amicably, “I think I saw you this morning in the square, on the arm of the Pantaloon yonder; and as for that Captain Spavent—­” and he pointed a derisive finger at the Marquess—­“I’ve watched him drive his bully’s trade under the arcade ever since I first dropped anchor in these waters.  Well, well,” he continued, his indignation subsiding, “all’s fair in Carnival, I suppose, but this gentleman here is under sailing orders, and I fear we must break up your little party.”