"Will you give me your arm? My partner has another engagement."
He bowed, and offered me his arm. His voice, when he spoke, was so low, and so studiously disguised, it was impossible to detect anything from that; his coarse black domino hung so long and amply about him, and the hood was drawn so tightly around his mask, that no one could possibly distinguish anything of his face, figure, or carriage. Before we had made the tour of the rooms, I began to repent my bargain. There was something in his manner that made me most uncomfortable. I determined not to give up my assumed vivacity, but it was like chatting with a ghost; and when I went with him into the punch-room, and raised a glass to my lips, bowing to him over it, it seemed like a "hob-and-nob with Death," and the laugh I laughed was a very faint and forced one, as we set our half-tasted glasses down. I was so uncomfortable at being alone with him, that I stammered hurriedly:
"Shan't we go back to the dancing-room?"
"Are you afraid of me?" he said quickly, and in a low tone, "can you not give me a moment from your pleasure?"
"Sir!" I said, shrinking back; "I haven't the least idea who you are."
"You can forget, it seems. I envy you the power!"
"You talk in riddles," I said, going toward the door. Another party entered the room, and my companion followed me out.
"What a grotesque scene!" I said, looking up and down the wide hall, where wreaths of flowers and lights and floating flags hung, and thronging across whose marble pavement were groups of fantastic figures. "I never was at a masquerade before. Is it not diverting?"
"Will you come upon the piazza?" asked my companion, not heeding my remark. "It is too warm here."
"No," I exclaimed, hurriedly, "I cannot, here is my partner."