"But, dear, what will your father say?" Savitre asked anxiously.
"He will be angry, I know. But it is partly his fault I am obliged to act thus."
In a few minutes Lalli and Tolla had silently arrayed their young mistress in trailing black robes, which clung softly to her beautiful form.
No jewelry relieved the somberness of her dress; her dark hair, thick and long, fell like a veil over her shoulders, adding to the mournfulness of her garb by its dusky waves.
Below, in the handsome marble hall, stood Don Garcia and Tonza, both watching with suppressed impatience the richly-hung staircase leading to Lianor's apartments.
"It is late. I hope nothing has occurred," Manuel said anxiously, drawing the velvet curtain aside to gaze across the hall.
Even as he did so, Lianor, leaning lightly on Satzavan's shoulder, appeared, her graceful head held proudly erect, an expression of supreme indifference on her face.
Both men started with an exclamation of alarm—rage on Manuel's part.
"What! In mourning, and for a ball?" Manuel gasped with rising passion.
"Lianor, what does this farce mean? Why have you disguised yourself? How dare you disobey me when I said so particularly I wished you to appear at your best? I have been too weakly indulgent with you, and now you take advantage of my tenderness to disgrace me by showing my guests your foolish infatuation for a man to whom I now wish I had never promised your hand."