And what a quaint and stately sight it was, the great hall with its mediæval atmosphere filled with color, perfume and charming affectation. There were pompous and powdered dames, tinted like delicate china and exhaling odors of ambergris and of musk. There were gentlemen in gorgeous coats and waistcoats, slim swords dangling beside their silk-stockinged legs. And the sweet wenches in brocades and flowered silks, with black masks over their soft, pink faces, and their dear eyes glistening like stars through a dark firmament! The nodding feathers, the lace, the powder and patches, the rippling color, the perfumes, the coy satin slippers, the flickering fans. Surely it was all very quaint and beautiful, even though much of its charm was on the surface, and that there were sharp tongues behind many a set of pearly teeth. Richard, despite the mystery of a black velvet vizard, soon discovered Mistress Jilian amid the rout. Did he not recognize the plump, pink bosom and the well-turned arms, the dimpled chin and bright gray eyes? Miss Hardacre’s head of auburn hair beaconed to Jeffray despite its powder. How red her mouth was!—and her gay-gowned body exuded perfume as though a spice-box had been broken in her tiring-room. Had he not seen that painted fan before, those twinkling feet, those plump, white hands? “Ah, Jilian, how well you look to-night.” The masked maiden laughed mischievously, and tapped Richard’s shoulder with her fan. “Are you sure it is Jilian?” she asked, with an arch bending of the neck. “I should know you anywhere.” “Now, sir, be careful.” “Why, there is the little brown mole on your left arm.” “Oh, cousin,” quoth the lady, covering the offending stigma with her fan, “you must not look at me as close as that.” “How can I help looking at you, Jilian?” “La, Richard, you are growing sweetly wicked. Come, they are striking up in the gallery. Let us lead off the first dance together.”