Drinking glass after glass of champagne, Ernest stood by the supper-table, a silent spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous enchantment gradually inflamed his imagination and fired his blood. He seemed to have been suddenly transported from dull matter-of-fact, every-day life, to a scene in some far oriental city, in the days of Haroun Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to the enchantment of the place, like one for the first time enjoying the intoxication of opium. Lawson returned, and came quietly to his side-- "Would you like to see the 'Midnight Queen,'--alone--in her parlor?" he whispered. "Of all things in the world. You have roused my curiosity. I am like a man in a delicious dream." "Understand me--she is chary of her smiles to an old stager like me--but I think, that there is something in you that will interest her. She awaits you in her apartments. You are a young English lord on your travels (better than a planter), Lord Stanley Fitz Herbert. With that black dress and somber face of yours you will take her wonderfully." "But can I indeed see her?" "Leave the room--ascend the stairs--at the head of the stairs a light shines from a door which is slightly open; take a bold heart and enter." Inflamed by curiosity, by the wine which he had drunk, and the scene around him, Ernest did not take time for a second thought, but left the room, ascended the stairs, and stood before the door from whose aperture a belt of light streamed out upon the dark passage. There, for a moment, he hesitated, but that was all. He opened the door and entered. He stood spell-bound by the scene. If the parlors below were magnificently furnished, this apartment was worthy of an empress. There were lofty walls hung with silk hangings and adorned with pictures; a couch with a silken canopy; mirrors that glittered gently in the rich voluptuous light; in a word, every detail of luxury and extravagance. In the center of all stood the "Midnight Queen"--in one hand she held an open letter. Her back was toward Ernest as he lingered near the threshold. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and he could remark at a glance their snowy whiteness and voluptuous outline, although her dark hair was gathered in glossy masses upon the shoulders, half hiding them from view. A dark dress, rich in its very simplicity, left her arms bare and did justice to the rounded proportions of her form. She turned and confronted Ernest, even as he, the blood bounding in his veins, advanced a single step. At once they spoke: "My Lord Stanley, I believe,--" "The 'Midnight Queen,'--" The words died on their lips. They stood as if suddenly frozen to the floor. The beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was pale as death, and as for Ernest, the glow of the wine had left his cheek--his face was livid and distorted. Moments passed and neither had power to speak. "O, my God, it is Frank!" the words at last burst from the lips of Ernest, and he fell like a dead man at her feet.