As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became the cynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with the ruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasional scream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamond from New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and was undergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, of the Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the public gaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that is to say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her in disgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feel dissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the masked shepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard was undeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even the strength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length to the power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for his partner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she had perceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew the hood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in the recesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, the pair pulled up close to the excited Furibon. "_Ah, mon vieux_," cried the Frenchman, advancing with extended hands, "you have rejoiced our eyes. _Ah, gredin_," whispered Furibon, as he indiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs. "Ta ta, old man, I must be off," replied Haggard with a frown, as the shepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. "For God's sake, Shirtings, take him away, or there'll be a row," muttered Haggard to his friend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his black moustache in a menacing manner. The crowd of revellers was thick around them. Barbiche was, as we know, a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, as has been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barbiche the _viveur_, for the moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days. "_Saperlotte_," he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the pale blue domino on the shoulder. The domino shrank as to avoid him. Crash! With one cruel but well-aimed blow Haggard smote the Frenchman in the mouth, and down he went among the feet of the crowd of indignant maskers. "Look to him, Spunyarn," cried Haggard, as he hustled his way through the crowd, and in an instant disappeared, bearing in his arms the fainting form of the shepherdess.