"Never a better chance, butterfly of the world!" It was a voice that she dimly recognized, yet she could not name the owner: a merry, carefree voice that was slightly disguised.
"Never a better chance," and the Franciscan offered his arm. "Haste not to the dance, fair sister—tarry a while and invite the soul in speech of import! Having passed the dragon at the gate, tarry a moment with this man of vows"
"Shrive me quickly, then," she said, laughing.
"Now, without confession? Would you have me read your thoughts and give penance?"
"If you can do that, holy man, I may confess; so prove it quickly!"
For the moment they stood alone. Higher on the stairs, and among the rooms behind them, were gay groups of masquers—dominoes, imposing Mephistos, backwoodsmen, gallants of Spain and France, red Indians and turbaned Hindus.
The Franciscan leaned forward. His voice came low, distinct, clear-cut, and he spoke in the French which Lucie understood as
