never felt.

In Washington Square, away down where Royal Street empties its stream
of children and men into the broad channel of Elysian Fields Avenue,
there was a perfect Indian dance. With a little imagination one might
have willed away the vision of the surrounding houses and fancied one's
self again in the forest, where the natives were holding a sacred riot.
The square was filled with spectators, masked and unmasked. It was
amusing to watch these mimic Red-men, they seemed so fierce and earnest.

Suddenly one chief touched another on the elbow. "See that Mephisto and
troubadour over there?" he whispered huskily.

"Yes, who are they?"

"I don't know the devil," responded the other quietly, "but I'd know
that other form anywhere. It's Leon, see? I know those white hands like
a woman's and that restless head. Ha!

"But there may be a mistake."

"No. I'd know that one anywhere; I feel it's him. I'll pay him now. Ah,
sweetheart, you've waited long, but you shall feast now!" He was
caressing something long, and lithe, and glittering beneath his blanket.

In a masked dance it is easy to give a death-blow between the shoulders.
Two crowds meet and laugh and shout and mingle almost inextricably, and
if a shriek of pain should arise, it is not noticed in the din, and when
they part, if one should stagger and fall bleeding to the ground, who
can tell who has given the blow? There is naught but an unknown stiletto