The monk was tall; his hood and robe fashioned of white cloth bordered with red; the hood concealed his face, and the robe fell in easy folds from his shoulders to his sandaled feet. The nun was attired in a hood and robe of snow-white satin; the hood concealed her face and locks of gold; but the robe, although loose and flowing, could not conceal the rounded outlines of her shape. Her naked feet were encased in delicate slippers of white satin. And clinging with both hands to the arm of the White Monk, the White Nun went by. "Beverly, are you sure?" Nameless heard her whisper. "Sure?" replied the White Monk, in a tone that rose above a whisper,--"He is false--false--you have the proofs!" And they went from the light into the gloom. "She trembles, and her voice falters," said Frank, observing the form of the retiring nun. "Did she not say _Beverly_?" asked Nameless, a tide of recollections rushing upon his brain. "That name--surely I heard it,--" "Look!" interrupted Frank, pressing his arm,--"An oddly assorted couple as ever went arm in arm." And a little Turk, dressed in a scarlet jacket and blue trowsers, with an enormous turban on his head, approached the central pillar, leaning on the arm,--nay, clutching the hand of a tall lady, whose face and form were completely concealed by an unsightly robe of black muslin; a garment which seemed to have been assumed, not so much for the sake of ornament, as for disguise. Gathering the robe across her head and face with one hand, she glided along; her other hand,--apparently not altogether to her liking,--grasped by her singular companion. As the "Lady in Black" passed by, Nameless heard these words,-- "Havana! A most delightful residence," whispered the Turk. The "Lady in Black" made no reply,--did not even bend her head; but passed along, her robe brushing the tunic of Nameless, as she glided from view. Why was it that through every nerve, Nameless felt a sensation which cannot be described, but which one cannot feel but once in a lifetime,--and once felt, thrilling from heart to brain, from brain to the remotest fiber of being, can never be forgotten? A sensation, as though the hand of one long since dead, had touched his cheek, as though the presence of one long since given to the grave, had come to him and _overshadowed_ him? "Who is that lady?" he whispered,--resting one hand against the pillar, for a sudden faintness seized him,--"That lady who is matched with a companion so grotesque?" "She may be young or old, fair or hideous, but her name I cannot tell," responded Frank. "As for her companion,--the diminutive Turk who clutches her hand, and to whose soft pleadings she does not seem to listen with the most affectionate interest,--his name is----" Frank bent her mouth close to the ear of Nameless. "His name?" he interrupted. "Is one which cannot but excite bitter memories. Israel Yorke, the Financier!"