“When Harold’s dead body was found on the battle-field, it was not the queen, but Fair Edith, who was sent for to identify it, and to her it was given,” continued the stranger.
A half-suppressed cry broke from Sybil’s lips.
“What is the matter? Are they treading on your feet?” inquired the mask.
“Some one is treading on me,” murmured Sybil, with a sad double meaning.
“Do not press on us so, if you please, sir!” said Death, turning and staring angrily at the unoffending little Grand Turk, and Fenella the dumb girl, who happened to be immediately in the rear. Having thus brow-beaten the imaginary enemy, Death turned to his companion and said:
“King Harold and Fair Edith were lovers, and these who assume their parts are also lovers, and they take their related parts from a sentimental motive! You are tired! let me lead you to a seat!” suddenly exclaimed the stranger, feeling his partner’s form drooping heavily from his side.
She was almost fainting, she was almost sinking into a swoon. She permitted her escort to take her to a chair, and to fetch her a glass of water. And then she thanked him and requested him to select another partner, as she was too much fatigued to go upon the floor again for an hour, and that she preferred to sit where she was, and to watch the masquerade march on before her.
But Death politely declared that he preferred to stand there by her and share her pastime, if she would permit him to do so.
She bowed assent, and Death took up his position at her side.