Chapter 5

HOW THE GIRL DID IT

At home he found a party of young friends, who hailed with delight the
prospect of a revel at the Hall. An hour later, the blithe company
trooped into the great saloon, where preparations had already been made
for a dramatic evening.

Good Sir John was in his element, for he was never so happy as when his
house was full of young people. Several persons were chosen, and in a
few moments the curtains were withdrawn from the first of these
impromptu tableaux. A swarthy, darkly bearded man lay asleep on a tiger
skin, in the shadow of a tent. Oriental arms and drapery surrounded him;
an antique silver lamp burned dimly on a table where fruit lay heaped in
costly dishes, and wine shone redly in half-emptied goblets. Bending
over the sleeper was a woman robed with barbaric splendor. One hand
turned back the embroidered sleeve from the arm which held a scimitar;
one slender foot in a scarlet sandal was visible under the white tunic;
her purple mantle swept down from snowy shoulders; fillets of gold bound
her hair, and jewels shone on neck and arms. She was looking over her
shoulder toward the entrance of the tent, with a steady yet stealthy
look, so effective that for a moment the spectators held their breath,
as if they also heard a passing footstep.

"Who is it?" whispered Lucia, for the face was new to her.

"Jean Muir," answered Coventry, with an absorbed look.

"Impossible! She is small and fair," began Lucia, but a hasty "Hush, let
me look!" from her cousin silenced her.

Impossible as it seemed, he was right nevertheless; for Jean Muir it
was. She had darkened her skin, painted her eyebrows, disposed some wild
black locks over her fair hair, and thrown such an intensity of
expression into her eyes that they darkened and dilated till they were
as fierce as any southern eyes that ever flashed. Hatred, the deepest
and bitterest, was written on her sternly beautiful face, courage glowed
in her glance, power spoke in the nervous grip of the slender hand that
held the weapon, and the indomitable will of the woman was
expressed--even the firm pressure of the little foot half hidden in the
tiger skin.

"Oh, isn't she splendid?" cried Bella under her breath.

"She looks as if she'd use her sword well when the time comes," said
someone admiringly.

"Good night to Holofernes; his fate is certain," added another.

"He is the image of Sydney, with that beard on."

"Doesn't she look as if she really hated him?"

"Perhaps she does."

Coventry uttered the last exclamation, for the two which preceded it
suggested an explanation of the marvelous