or what?”
“I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he recognizes me.”
“And I can well understand,” said the countess, shrugging up her beautiful shoulders, as though an involuntary shudder passed through her veins, “that those who have once seen that man will never be likely to forget him.”
The sensation experienced by Franz was evidently not peculiar to himself; another, and wholly uninterested person, felt the same unaccountable awe and misgiving.
“Well,” inquired Franz, after the countess had a second time directed her lorgnette at the box, “what do you think of our opposite neighbor?”
“Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form.”
This fresh allusion to Byron drew a smile to Franz’s countenance; although he could but allow that if anything was likely to induce belief in the existence of