"Those who go veiled know more than ordinary folk," she replied, then mingled with the other guests.
A young woman of great beauty, with light hair and blue eyes, sat beside young Fabio of the Cavalli. Her bare arms, white as snow, and of exquisite contour, encircled his neck, while he drank and drank. Now and then she sipped of the wine, Lacrymae Christi from Viterbo, of the greenish straw color of the chrysoberyl.
Some one had put red poppy leaves in Roxana's hair, and as she sat by the side of the youth, she had the air and appearance of a Corybante.
Now and then she gave a glance at the purple curtain in the background, and one who watched her closely might have seen a strange sparkle in the depths of her clear blue eyes. With a look of disappointment she turned away, as not a ripple of air stirred the curtain's heavy fold. Then her arms stole anew round the youth, who drained one goblet after another, as if each succeeding one yielded up a new secret to him.
Roxana marked it well.
Her eyes danced to his, whenever Fabio's gaze stole towards the purple curtain which screened the mysterious garden beyond, in which the spray of a fountain cast silvery showers into branch-shadowed thickets, hidden retreats and silent, leafy alcoves, where flowers swooned in the moonlight and gave up their perfume for love.
From the immobile sable hangings the youth's eyes wandered back to Roxana's face, but there lurked something strange in their depths.
"Am I not more beautiful than Theodora?" whispered the woman by his side, extending her marble arms before her lover.
"You are beautiful, my Roxana," he stammered. "But Theodora is the most beautiful woman on earth."
Roxana turned very white at his words.