" Wisdom,
like Virtue, is its own reward; and scarcely had he come to this
laudable conclusion, when, by the feeble glimmer of the
house-lamps, he saw a figure that made his heart bound, flitting
through the night-gloom toward him. He would have known that
figure on the sands of Sahara, in an Indian jungle, or an
American forest - a tall, slight, supple figure, bending and
springing like a bow of steel, queenly and regal as that of a
young empress. It was draped in a long cloak reaching to the
ground, in color as black as the night, and clasped by a jewel
whose glittering flash, he saw even there; a velvet hood of the
same color covered the stately head; and the mask - the tiresome,
inevitable mask covered the beautiful - he was positive it was
beautiful - face. He had seen her a score of times in that very
dress, flitting like a dark, graceful ghost through the city
streets, and the sight sent his heart plunging against his side
like an inward sledge-hammer. Would one pulse in her heart stir
ever so faintly at sight of him? Just as he asked himself the
question, and was stepping forward to moot her, feeling very like
the country swain in love - "hot and dry like, with a pain in his
side like" - he suddenly stopped.
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