“Ah!” he cried,—“Now comes the tragic moment, when the spectators hold their breath, and the blue flame is turned on, and the man manages the lime-light so that its radiance shall fall on the face of the chief actor—or Actress! And the bassoons and ‘cellos grumble inaudible nothings to the big drum! Administer the oath, Sergius Thord!”
A smile went the round of the company.
“Have you only just wakened up from sleep, Paul Zouche?” asked Zegota.
“I never sleep,” answered Zouche, pushing his hair back from his forehead;—“Unless sleep compels me, by force, to yield to its coarse and commonplace persuasion. To lie down in a shirt and snore the hours away! Faugh! Can anything be more gross or vulgar! Time flies so quickly, and life is so short, that I cannot afford to waste any moment in such stupid unconsciousness. I can drink wine, make love, and kill rascals—all these occupations are much more interesting than sleeping. Come, Sergius! Play the great trick of the evening! Administer the oath!”
A frowning line puckered Thord’s brows, but the expression of vexation was but momentary. Turning to Leroy again he said:
“You are quite ready?”
“Quite,” replied Leroy.
“And your friends——?”
Leroy smiled. “They are ready also!”
There followed a pause. Then Thord called in a clear low tone—