She was attired in a rich crimson velvet gown that fell in graceful folds from her shapely shoulders; the hue of which lent a deeper rose-tint to her cheeks, whose colour had somewhat paled during her incarceration.
But what appeared most inexplicable to the multitude was the expression of serene sweetness that overspread her countenance. It was indeed an indefinable expression, indicating a variety of emotions. Joy, content, intense happiness, and possession, all united in imparting to her face a look of subdued and silent triumph; but he who could gaze beneath the surface might have read that Love, all conquering Love had made his home in her bosom, and through her brilliant eyes, illumined with a divine radiance those windows of her soul.
All bent their gaze upon her. The noble stature; the perfectly moulded form; the well-shaped head; the exquisite beauty of every feature, lighted by that divine expression which shone from out her star-like eyes, brought a murmur of admiration, and suppressed enthusiasm from every side.
All through the Hall it spread itself; and Swami perceived that in those millions of brain-waves floating round him, admiration for the woman who held his soul was the one prevailing emotion.
After the first burst of enthusiasm had subsided Swami himself came in for notice.
‘Dayanand Swami! The great thought-reader!’ exclaimed different persons sotto voce, as each one recognised him.
‘Whoever saw the Eastern Hermit in a public place before? What means this strange innovation?’
‘Now this is getting mysterious,’ observed Prince Osbert gaily to his neighbour, Louis, of France, ‘our great Magician escorting our fair Astronomer—what in the name of goodness is going to happen?’
‘Beauty holds Magic, all the world over, and star-gazing and thought-reading complete the full magician,’ answered the French monarch gallantly.
‘I bet she’s been to get her fortune told, and Swami, like the rest of us, has succumbed. But no fellow has the shadow of a chance with her; she’s gone on Geometrus, that melancholy being sitting yonder. He’s the cause of all the row,’ whispered Osbert oracularly, ‘but for him our cousin Felicitas might not have fared so badly. However, ’tis better so; ’tis time his wings were clipped.’