He then expressed a hope of having the honor of dancing with her again during the evening, and with a final bow he withdrew. But he did but make way for a succession of suitors, who, in low and pleading tones, besought the honor of her hand in the waltz that was about to begin. But to each of these in turn she excused herself, upon the plea that she never waltzed. Next she was besieged by candidates for the delight of dancing with her in the quadrille that was immediately to follow the waltz. And she mechanically bowed assent to the first applicant, and excused herself to all others, upon the plea of her previous engagement. That Sybil consented to dance at all, under the painful circumstances of her position, was due to the instinctive courtesy of her nature, which taught her, that on such an occasion as this, the hostess must not indulge her private feelings, however importunate they might be, but that she must mingle in the amusements of her guests; for she forgot that a masquerade ball was different from all other entertainments in this, that her masquerade dress put her on an equality with all her guests, and emancipated her from all the duties of a hostess as long as she should wear her mask. Meanwhile she was looking for her husband and her rival, who had both disappeared. And presently her vigilance was rewarded. They reappeared, locked in each other's arms, and whirling around in the bewildering waltz. And she watched them, all unconscious that she herself was the "observed of all observers," the "cynosure of eyes," the star of that "goodlie company." All who were not waltzing, and many who were waltzing, were talking of Sybil. "Who is she? What is she? Where did she come from? Does any one know her?" were some of the questions that were asked on all sides. "She outshines every one in the room," whispered a "Crusader" to a "Quaker." "I have heard of 'making sunshine in a shady place,' but _she_ 'makes sunshine' even in a lighted place!" observed Tecumseh. "Who, then, is she?" inquired William Penn. "No one knows," answered Richard Coeur de Lion. "But what character does she take?" asked Lucretia Borgia. "I should think it was a 'Priestess of the sun,'" surmised Rebecca the Jewess. "No! I should think she has taken the character of the 'Princess Creusa,' the daughter of Creon, King of Corinth, and the victim of Medea the Sorceress. Creusa perished, you know, in the robe of magic presented to her as a wedding gift from Medea, and designed to burn the wearer to ashes! Yes, decidedly it is Creusa, in her death robe of fire!" persisted the 'gentle Desdemona,' who had just joined the motley group. "You are every one of you mistaken. I heard her announced when she entered--the 'Spirit of Fire,'" said Pocahontas, with an air of authority. "That is her assumed character! Now to find out her real one." "Shall I whisper my opinion? Mind, it is _only_ an opinion, with no data for a foundation," put in Charlemagne.