cannot be a matter of indifference to those of his readers who
would fain do him justice.

Reading brings us unknown friends, and what friend is like a
reader? We have friends in our own circle who read nothing of
ours. The author hopes to pay his debt, by dedicating this work
_Diis ignotis_.



THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

One winter evening, in a princely palace at Ferrara, Don Juan
Belvidero was giving a banquet to a prince of the house of Este.
A banquet in those times was a marvelous spectacle which only
royal wealth or the power of a mightly [sic] lord could furnish
forth. Seated about a table lit up with perfumed tapers, seven
laughter-loving women were interchanging sweet talk. The white
marble of the noble works of art about them stood out against the
red stucco walls, and made strong contrasts with the rich Turkey
carpets. Clad in satin, glittering with gold, and covered with
gems less brilliant than their eyes, each told a tale of
energetic passions as diverse as their styles of beauty. They
differed neither in their ideas nor in their language; but the
expression of their eyes, their glances, occasional gestures, or
the tones of their voices supplied a commentary, dissolute,
wanton, melancholy, or satirical, to their words.

One seemed to be saying--"The frozen heart of age might kindle at
my beauty."