New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

by George Lippard

"Yes," she responded in a whisper. "This night past, I will bid adieu to scenes like this forever!" and she drew him gently to her bosom.—"Your life has been dark—mine dark and criminal. But there is hope for us, Gulian—hope beyond these walls, where pollution is masked in flowers,—hope in some far distant scene, where, unclogged by the dark memories of the past, we will begin life anew, and seek the blessing of God, in a career of faith, of self-denial!"

"And then, Frank," said Nameless,—"should wealth ever be ours, we will devote it to the redemption of those who have suffered like us, and like us fallen."

At this moment, a burst of music, from an adjoining chamber, floated through the vast and shadowy hall. And then the sound of dancing, mingled with the music—and now and then the music and the dance were interrupted by the echo of joyous voices.

"'The guests of the Temple' are dancing in the Banquet Chamber," said Frank. "Masked and vailed, shut out from the world by impenetrable walls, they are commencing one of those orgies, which awoke the echoes of the Vatican, in the days of Pope Borgia."

A curtain was thrust aside,—a momentary blaze of light rushed into the vast hall,—and masked and vailed, the "guests of the Temple" came pouring into the place.

"Stand here and observe them," whispered Frank.

"A strange and motley throng!" returned Nameless, in a whisper. "Are we indeed in New York, in the nineteenth century?—or is it in Rome, in the days of the Borgias?"

And for a few moments, he stood side by side with Frank, in the shadow of the central pillar, watching the scene in dumb amazement. Walking, two by two—some forty men and women in all—the guests glided through the voluptuous light—and shadow, no less voluptuous—of the central chamber. It was, indeed, a strange and motley crowd! Popes and cardinals, and monks and nuns, mingled with knights, caliphs and dancing girls. The effect of their rich and varied costumes, deepened by the soft light, was impressive, dazzling. A pope led a dancing girl by the hand—a Christian knight encircled the slender waist of a houri, a stately cardinal discoursed in low tones with a staid quakeress, whose enticing form lost none of its charms in her severely neat attire; and the grand Caliph Haroun Alraschid, unawed by the precepts of the prophet, supported a vailed abbess, on his royal arm. Contrasts like these glided among the pillars—now in light, now in shadow; echoes of softly whispered conversation filled the hall with a musical murmur; and the mirrors along the walls reflected the pictures—the tables, loaded with viands and flowers—the rich variety of costume—the pillars of white marble—the light and shadow, which gave new witchery to the scene.

There were certain of the maskers who, in an especial manner, riveted the attention of Nameless.

A man of stately presence and royal stride, attired in a tunic of purple silk, with an outer tunic of scarlet velvet, edged with white ermine—hose, also of scarlet—and shoes fastened with diamond buckles. Even had the mask failed to hide his face, it would have been concealed by the cluster of snowy plumes which nodded from his jeweled coronet.