"Ah!" he turned to the girl in a barbarous jargon, "you are one of those who go veiled in the streets." And as he spoke his eyes leered with yet livelier malice. The girl shrank back. "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. "She has challenged me to come to her feast," she said in a low tone, audible only to Fabio. "Let her look to herself!" And her eyes were alight with the desire of the meeting. On an adjoining couch reclined the huge jelly of a man who looked like Pan, enormously swollen and bloated. His paunch bellied out over the table like a full blown sail. His face was stained with many a night of wine. The mulberry eyes twinkled merrily. The swollen lips babbled incessantly. It was the Lord Boso of Caprara. "They say that seven devils were cast out of Magdalene--" he turned to Roxana-- The Lord of Norba interposed. "De mortuis nil nisi bene! Natura abhorret vacuum! I drink to the thirst to come!" And he raised his goblet and tossed it off. The Lord Atenulf rose to his feet, swaying and supporting himself with one hand on the table. His great swollen face, big as a ham, creased itself into merriment. "Let the wine ferret out the thirst!" he shouted, and drained off his tankard.