"But, dear, what will your father say?" Savitre asked anxiously.

"He will be angry, I know. But it is partly his fault I am obliged to
act thus."

In a few minutes Lalli and Tolla had silently arrayed their young
mistress in trailing black robes, which clung softly to her beautiful
form.

No jewelry relieved the somberness of her dress; her dark hair, thick
and long, fell like a veil over her shoulders, adding to the
mournfulness of her garb by its dusky waves.

Below, in the handsome marble hall, stood Don Garcia and Tonza, both
watching with suppressed impatience the richly-hung staircase leading
to Lianor's apartments.

"It is late. I hope nothing has occurred," Manuel said anxiously,
drawing the velvet curtain aside to gaze across the hall.

Even as he did so, Lianor, leaning lightly on Satzavan's shoulder,
appeared, her graceful head held proudly erect, an expression of
supreme indifference on her face.

Both men started with an exclamation of alarm--rage on Manuel's part.

"What! In mourning, and for a ball?" Manuel gasped with rising
passion.

"Lianor, what does this farce mean? Why have you disguised yourself?