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?
How dare you disobey me when I said so particularly I wished you to
appear at your best? I have been too weakly indulgent with you, and
now you take advantage of my tenderness to disgrace me by showing my
guests your foolish infatuation for a man to whom I now wish I had
never promised your hand."
Lianor lifted her reproachful eyes to his, her pale face, even whiter
in contrast with her somber dress, full of resolute rebellion.
"I am not ungrateful, papa, for your kindness, but I will never forget
the promise I gave Luiz.
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