"Let it be at once, then," is the whispered reply.
He offers his arm; she quietly but firmly pushes it aside.
"I will follow you," she says in her low-toned voice.
And the Turk leaves the hall, followed by the Lady in Black.
"The Blue Chamber!" he ejaculates, as he crosses the threshold.
Look again among the throng of guests. The stately Roderick Borgia stands yonder, his massive form reflected in a mirror, and the white robed Lucretia resting on his arm. They are masked; you cannot see the voluptuous loveliness of her face, nor the somber passion of his bronzed visage. But his brow,—that vast forehead, big with swollen veins,—is visible; and the mirror reflects her spotless neck and shoulders, and the single lily set among the meshes of her raven hair. It is a fine picture; the majestic Borgia, clad in purple, the enticing Lucretia robed in snowy white: never before did mirror reflect a more striking contrast. You hear his voice—that voice whose organ-like depth stirs the blood:
"A career, beautiful lady, now opens before you, such as the proudest queen might envy—"
And he attempts to take her soft, white hand within his own. But she gently withdraws it from his grasp. Lucretia, it seems, is timid, or—artful.
"Yes, we will revive the day, when intellect and beauty, embodied in a woman's form, ruled the world." How his deep voice adds force to his words. "Yes, yes; you shall be my Queen—mine! But come; I have that to say to you, which will have a vital bearing upon your fate."
"And my brother?" whispers Lucretia.