Look again among the throng of guests. The stately Roderick Borgia stands yonder, his massive form reflected in a mirror, and the white robed Lucretia resting on his arm. They are masked; you cannot see the voluptuous loveliness of her face, nor the somber passion of his bronzed visage. But his brow,--that vast forehead, big with swollen veins,--is visible; and the mirror reflects her spotless neck and shoulders, and the single lily set among the meshes of her raven hair. It is a fine picture; the majestic Borgia, clad in purple, the enticing Lucretia robed in snowy white: never before did mirror reflect a more striking contrast. You hear his voice--that voice whose organ-like depth stirs the blood: "A career, beautiful lady, now opens before you, such as the proudest queen might envy--" And he attempts to take her soft, white hand within his own. But she gently withdraws it from his grasp. Lucretia, it seems, is timid, or--artful. "Yes, we will revive the day, when intellect and beauty, embodied in a woman's form, ruled the world." How his deep voice adds force to his words. "Yes, yes; you shall be my Queen--mine! But come; I have that to say to you, which will have a vital bearing upon your fate." "And my brother?" whispers Lucretia. "And also the fate of your brother," responds Roderick Borgia. "Come with me to the Golden Room." "To the Golden Room be it then!" And Lucretia leans on the arm of Borgia and goes with him from the Hall to the Golden Room: his broad chest swelling with the anticipation of triumph,--and her right hand resting upon the hilt of the poniard which is inserted in the scarf that binds her waist. Ere we follow the guests who have left the hall, and trace their various fortunes, let us cast a momentary glance upon those who remain. The Caliph Haroun Alraschid sits by yonder table, sipping champagne from a long-necked glass, which now and then is pressed by the lips of his fair abbess. The caliph has evidently been refreshing himself too bountifully with the wines of the Giaour; his mask falls aside, and beneath his turban, instead of the grave oriental features of the magnificent sultan, you discern the puffy face and carbuncled nose of a Wall street broker.