"I mean, rather," he replied earnestly, "that this great creative flood
in him, so curiously focused now upon his Horus-falcon-bird idea, may
result in some act of violence----"

"Which would be madness," she said, looking hard at him. "Which would be disastrous," he corrected her. And then he added
slowly: "Because in the mental moment of immense creation he might
overlook material laws." *       *       *       *       *

The costume ball two nights later was a great success. Palazov was
a Bedouin, and Khilkoff an Apache; Mme. de Drühn wore a national
head-dress; Minski looked almost natural as Don Quixote; and the entire
Russian "set" was cleverly, if somewhat extravagantly, dressed. But
Binovitch and Vera were the most successful of all the two hundred
dancers who took part. Another figure, a big man dressed as a Pierrot,
also claimed exceptional attention, for though the costume was
commonplace enough, there was something of dignity in his appearance
that drew the eyes of all upon him. But he wore a mask, and his
identity was not discoverable. It was Binovitch and Vera, however, who must have won the prize,
if prize there had been, for they not only looked their parts, but
acted them as well. The former in his dark grey feather tunic, and
his falcon mask, complete even to the brown hooked beak and tufted
talons, looked fierce and splendid. The disguise was so admirable,
yet so entirely natural, that it was uncommonly seductive. Vera, in
blue and gold, a charming head-dress of a dove upon her loosened hair,
and a pair of little dove-pale wings fluttering from her shoulders,
her tiny twinkling feet and slender ankles well visible, too, was
equally successful and admired. Her large and timid eyes, her flitting
movements, her light and dainty way of dancing--all added touches that
made the picture perfect. How Binovitch contrived his dress remained a mystery, for the layers
of wings upon his back were real; the large black kites that haunt
the Nile, soaring in their hundreds over Cairo and the bleak Mokattam
Hills, had furnished them. He had procured them none knew how. They
measured four feet across from tip to tip; they swished and rustled
as he swept along; they were true falcons' wings. He danced with
Nautch-girls and Egyptian princesses and Rumanian Gipsies; he danced
well, with beauty, grace, and lightness. But with Vera he did not dance
at all; with her he simply flew. A kind of passionate abandon was in
him as he skimmed the floor with her in a way that made everybody
turn to watch them. They seemed to leave the ground together. It was
delightful, an amazing sight; but it was peculiar. The strangeness of
it was on many lips. Somehow its queer extravagance communicated itself
to the entire ball-room. They became the centre of observation. There
were whispers. "There's that extraordinary bird-man! Look! He goes by like a hawk. And
he's always after that dove-girl. How marvellously he does it! It's
rather awful. Who is he? I don't envy _her_." People stood aside when he rushed past. They got out of his way. He
seemed forever pursuing Vera, even when dancing with another partner. Word passed from mouth to mouth. A kind of telepathic interest was
established everywhere. It was a shade too real sometimes, something
unduly earnest in the chasing wildness, something unpleasant. There was
even alarm. "It's rowdy; I'd rather not see it; it's quite disgraceful," was heard. "_I_ think it's horrible; you can see she's terrified." And once there was a little scene, trivial enough, yet betraying this
reality that many noticed and disliked. Binovitch came up to claim
a dance, programme clutched in his great tufted claws, and at the
same moment the big Pierrot appeared abruptly round the corner with a
similar claim. Those who saw it assert he had been waiting, and came
on purpose, and that there was something protective and authoritative
in his bearing. The misunderstanding was ordinary enough--both men had
written her name against the dance--but "No. 13, Tango" also included
the supper interval, and neither Hawk nor Pierrot would give way. They
were very obstinate. Both men wanted her. It was awkward. "The Dove shall decide between us," smiled the Hawk politely, yet his
taloned fingers working nervously. Pierrot, however, more experienced
in the ways of dealing with women, or more bold, said suavely:

"I am ready to abide by her decision"--his voice poorly cloaked this
aggravating authority, as though he had the right to her--"only I
engaged this dance before his Majesty Horus appeared upon the scene at
all, and therefore it is clear that Pierrot has the right of way." At once, with a masterful air, he took her off. There was no
withstanding him. He meant to have her and he got her. She yielded
meekly. They vanished among the maze of coloured dancers, leaving the
Hawk, disconsolate and vanquished, amid the titters of the onlookers. His swiftness, as against this steady power, was of no avail. It was then that the singular phenomenon was witnessed first. Those
who saw it affirm that he changed absolutely into the part he played. It was dreadful; it was wicked. A frightened whisper ran about the
rooms and corridors:

"An extraordinary thing is in the air!" Some shrank away, while others flocked to see. There were those who
swore that a curious, rushing sound was audible, the atmosphere visibly
disturbed and shaken; that a shadow fell upon the spot the couple had
vacated; that a cry was heard, a high, wild, searching cry: "Horus! bright deity of wind," it began, then died away. One man was positive
that the windows had been opened and that something had flown in. It was the obvious explanation. The thing spread horribly. As in a
fire-panic, there was consternation and excitement. Confusion caught
the feet of all the dancers. The music fumbled and lost time. The
leading pair of tango dancers halted and looked round. It seemed that
everybody pressed back, hiding, shuffling, eager to see, yet more eager
not to be seen, as though something dangerous, hostile, terrible, had
broken loose. In rows against the wall they stood. For a great space
had made itself in the middle of the ball-room, and into this empty
space appeared suddenly the Pierrot and the Dove. It was like a challenge. A sound of applause, half voices, half
clapping of gloved hands, was heard. The couple danced exquisitely into
the arena. All stared. There was an impression that a set piece had
been prepared, and that this was its beginning. The music again took
heart. Pierrot was strong and dignified, no whit nonplussed by this
abrupt publicity. The Dove, though faltering, was deliciously obedient. They danced together like a single outline. She was captured utterly. And to the man who needed her the sight was naturally agonizing--the
protective way the Pierrot held her, the right and strength of it, the
mastery, the complete possession. "He's got her!" some one breathed too loud, uttering the thought of
all.