And a little Turk, dressed in a scarlet jacket and blue trowsers, with an enormous turban on his head, approached the central pillar, leaning on the arm,—nay, clutching the hand of a tall lady, whose face and form were completely concealed by an unsightly robe of black muslin; a garment which seemed to have been assumed, not so much for the sake of ornament, as for disguise. Gathering the robe across her head and face with one hand, she glided along; her other hand,—apparently not altogether to her liking,—grasped by her singular companion. As the "Lady in Black" passed by, Nameless heard these words,—
"Havana! A most delightful residence," whispered the Turk.
The "Lady in Black" made no reply,—did not even bend her head; but passed along, her robe brushing the tunic of Nameless, as she glided from view.
Why was it that through every nerve, Nameless felt a sensation which cannot be described, but which one cannot feel but once in a lifetime,—and once felt, thrilling from heart to brain, from brain to the remotest fiber of being, can never be forgotten? A sensation, as though the hand of one long since dead, had touched his cheek, as though the presence of one long since given to the grave, had come to him and overshadowed him?
"Who is that lady?" he whispered,—resting one hand against the pillar, for a sudden faintness seized him,—"That lady who is matched with a companion so grotesque?"
"She may be young or old, fair or hideous, but her name I cannot tell," responded Frank. "As for her companion,—the diminutive Turk who clutches her hand, and to whose soft pleadings she does not seem to listen with the most affectionate interest,—his name is——" Frank bent her mouth close to the ear of Nameless.
"His name?" he interrupted.
"Is one which cannot but excite bitter memories. Israel Yorke, the Financier!"
At that name, linked with the events of the previous night, and with the somber memories of other years, Nameless started, and an ejaculation escaped his lips.
"Israel Yorke! and in this place?"