A young Creole's laugh mayhap a little loud, and--truly
there were many sword-canes. But neither grace nor foulness satisfied
the eye of the zealous young Dutchman.
Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman's arm. It
looked like--it must be, Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Koppig; do
not stop to notice the man!
"Madame John"--bowing--"I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig."
Madame John bows low, and smiles--a ball-room smile, but is frightened,
and her escort,--the manager,--drops her hand and slips away.
"Ah! Monsieur," she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stay
here a moment. Are you armed? No. Take this." She tried to slip a dirk
into his hands, but he would not have it.
"Oh, my dear young man, go! Go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtively
down the hall.
"I wish you not to dance," said the young man.
"I have danced already; I am going home. Come; be quick! we will go
together." She thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into the
street. When a square had been passed there came a sound of men running
behind them.
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