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The Midnight Queen

by May Agnes Fleming · English · Gutenberg #2950 · 496,604 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Midnight Queen

Author: May Agnes Fleming


        
Release date: December 1, 2001 [eBook #2950]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2950

Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN ***




Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger




THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN By May Agnes Fleming



Contents

THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN

   CHAPTER I.     THE SORCERESS.
   CHAPTER II.    THE DEAD BRIDE
   CHAPTER III.   THE COURT PAGE
   CHAPTER IV.    THE STRANGER.
   CHAPTER V.     THE DWARF AND THE RUIN.
   CHAPTER VI.    LA MASQUE
   CHAPTER VII.   THE EARL'S BARGE.
   CHAPTER VIII.  THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.
   CHAPTER IX.    LEOLINE.
   CHAPTER X.     THE PAGE, THE FIRES, AND THE FALL.
   CHAPTER XI.    THE EXECUTION.
   CHAPTER XII.   DOOM.
   CHAPTER XIII.  ESCAPED.
   CHAPTER XIV.  IN THE DUNGEON.
   CHAPTER XV.    LEOLINE'S VISITORS.
   CHAPTER XVI.   THE THIRD VISION.
   CHAPTER XVII.  THE HIDDEN FACE
   CHAPTER XVIII. THE INTERVIEW.
   CHAPTER XIX.   HUBERT'S WHISPER.
   CHAPTER XX.    AT THE PLAGUE-PIT.
   CHAPTER XXI.  WHAT WAS BEHIND THE MASK.
   CHAPTER XXII.  DAY-DAWN.
   CHAPTER XXIII. FINIS




THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN,



CHAPTER I. THE SORCERESS

The plague raged in the city of London. The destroying angel had gone
forth, and kindled with its fiery breath the awful pestilence, until all
London became one mighty lazar-house. Thousands were swept away daily;
grass grew in the streets, and the living were scarce able to bury
the dead. Business of all kinds was at an end, except that of the
coffin-makers and drivers of the pest-cart. Whole streets were shut up,
and almost every other house in the city bore the fatal red cross, and
the ominous inscription, “Lord have mercy on us”. Few people, save the
watchmen, armed with halberts, keeping guard over the stricken houses,
appeared in the streets; and those who ventured there, shrank from each
other, and passed rapidly on with averted faces. Many even fell dead on
the sidewalk, and lay with their ghastly, discolored faces, upturned to
the mocking sunlight, until the dead-cart came rattling along, and
the drivers hoisted the body with their pitchforks on the top of their
dreadful load. Few other vehicles besides those same dead-carts appeared
in the city now; and they plied their trade busily, day and night; and
the cry of the drivers echoed dismally through the deserted streets:
“Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!” All who could do so had long
ago fled from the devoted city; and London lay under the burning heat
of the June sunshine, stricken for its sins by the hand of God. The
pest-houses were full, so were the plague-pits, where the dead were
hurled in cartfuls; and no one knew who rose up in health in the morning
but that they might be lying stark and dead in a few hours. The very
churches were forsaken; their pastors fled or lying in the plague-pits;
and it was even resolved to convert the great cathedral of St. Paul into
a vast plague-hospital. Cries and lamentations echoed from one end
of the city to the other, and Death and Charles reigned over London
together.

Yet in the midst of all this, many scenes of wild orgies and debauchery
still went on within its gates--as, in our own day, when the cholera
ravaged Paris, the inhabitants of that facetious city made it a
carnival, so now, in London, they were many who, feeling they had but a
few days to live at the most, resolved to defy death, and indulge in the
revelry while they yet existed. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow
you die!” was their motto; and if in the midst of the frantic dance or
debauched revel one of them dropped dead, the others only shrieked with
laughter, hurled the livid body out to the street, and the demoniac
mirth grew twice as fast and furious as before. Robbers and cut-purses
paraded the streets at noonday, entered boldly closed and deserted
houses, and bore off with impunity, whatever they pleased. Highwaymen
infested Hounslow Heath, and all the roads leading from the city,
levying a toll on all who passed, and plundering fearlessly the flying
citizens. In fact, far-famed London town, in the year of grace 1665,
would have given one a good idea of Pandemonium broke loose.

It was drawing to the close of an almost tropical June day, that the
crowd who had thronged the precincts of St. Paul's since early morning,
began to disperse. The sun, that had throbbed the livelong day like a
great heart of fire in a sea of brass, was sinking from sight in clouds
of crimson, purple and gold, yet Paul's Walk was crowded. There were
court-gallants in ruffles and plumes; ballad-singers chanting the not
over-delicate ditties of the Earl of Rochester; usurers exchanging
gold for bonds worth three times what they gave for them; quack-doctors
reading in dolorous tones the bills of mortality of the preceding day,
and selling plague-waters and anti-pestilential abominations, whose
merit they loudly extolled; ladies too, richly dressed, and many of them
masked; and booksellers who always made St. Paul's a favorite haunt, and
even to this day patronize its precincts, and flourish in the regions of
Paternoster Row and Ave Maria Lane; court pages in rich liveries, pert
and flippant; serving-men out of place, and pickpockets with a keen eye
to business; all clashed and jostled together, raising a din to which
the Plain of Shinar, with its confusion of tongues and Babylonish
workmen, were as nothing.

Moving serenely through this discordant sea of his fellow-creatures came
a young man booted and spurred, whose rich doublet of cherry colored
velvet, edged and spangled with gold, and jaunty hat set slightly on
one side of his head, with its long black plume and diamond clasp,
proclaimed him to be somebody. A profusion of snowy shirt-frill rushed
impetuously out of his doublet; a black-velvet cloak, lined with
amber-satin, fell picturesquely from his shoulders; a sword with a
jeweled hilt clanked on the pavement as he walked. One hand was covered
with a gauntlet of canary-colored kid, perfumed to a degree that would
shame any belle of to-day, the other, which rested lightly on his
sword-hilt, flashed with a splendid opal, splendidly set. He was a
handsome fellow too, with fair waving hair (for he had the good taste
to discard the ugly wigs then in vogue), dark, bright, handsome eyes,
a thick blonde moustache, a tall and remarkably graceful figure, and an
expression of countenance wherein easy good-nature and fiery impetuosity
had a hard struggle for mastery. That he was a courtier of rank, was
apparent from his rich attire and rather aristocratic bearing and
a crowd of hangers-on followed him as he went, loudly demanding
spur-money. A group of timbril-girls, singing shrilly the songs of the
day, called boldly to him as he passed; and one of them, more free and
easy than the rest, danced up to him striking her timbrel, and shouting
rather than singing the chorus of the then popular ditty,


              “What care I for pest or plague?
                We can die but once, God wot,
               Kiss me darling--stay with me:
                Love me--love me, leave me not!”

The darling in question turned his bright blue eyes on that dashing
street-singer with a cool glance of recognition.

“Very sorry, Nell,” he said, in a nonchalant tone, “but I'm afraid I
must. How long have you been here, may I ask?”

“A full hour by St. Paul's; and where has Sir Norman Kingsley been, may
I ask? I thought you were dead of the plague.”

“Not exactly. Have you seen--ah! there he is. The very man I want.”

With which Sir Norman Kingsley dropped a gold piece into the girl's
extended palm, and pushed on through the crowd up Paul's Walk. A tall,
dark figure was leaning moodily with folded arms, looking fixedly at
the ground, and taking no notice of the busy scene around him until Sir
Norman laid his ungloved and jeweled hand lightly on his shoulder.

“Good morning, Ormiston. I had an idea I would find you here, and--but
what's the matter with you, man? Have you got the plague? or has your
mysterious inamorata jilted you? or what other annoyance has happened to
make you look as woebegone as old King Lear, sent adrift by his tender
daughters to take care of himself?”

The individual addressed lifted his head, disclosing a dark and rather
handsome face, settled now into a look of gloomy discontent. He slightly
raised his hat as he saw who his questioner was.

“Ah! it's you, Sir Norman! I had given up all notion of your coming, and
was about to quit this confounded babel--this tumultuous den of thieves.
What has detained you?”

“I was on duty at Whitehall. Are we not in time to keep our
appointment?”

“Oh, certainly! La Masque is at home to visitors at all hours, day and
night. I believe in my soul she doesn't know what sleep means.”

“And you are still as much in love with her as ever, I dare swear! I
have no doubt, now, it was of her you were thinking when I came up.
Nothing else could ever have made you look so dismally woebegone as you
did, when Providence sent me to your relief.”

“I was thinking of her,” said the young man moodily, and with a
darkening brow.

Sir Norman favored him with a half-amused, half-contemptuous stare for a
moment; then stopped at a huckster's stall to purchase some cigarettes;
lit one, and after smoking for a few minutes, pleasantly remarked, as if
the fact had just struck him:

“Ormiston, you're a fool!”

“I know it!” said Ormiston, sententiously.

“The idea,” said Sir Norman, knocking the ashes daintily off the end
of his cigar with the tip of his little finger--“the idea of falling in
love with a woman whose face you have never seen! I can understand a man
a going to any absurd extreme when he falls in love in proper Christian
fashion, with a proper Christian face; but to go stark, staring mad, as
you have done, my dear fellow, about a black loo mask, why--I consider
that a little too much of a good thing! Come, let us go.”

Nodding easily to his numerous acquaintances as he went, Sir Norman
Kingsley sauntered leisurely down Paul's Walk, and out through the great
door of the cathedral, followed by his melancholy friend. Pausing for a
moment to gaze at the gorgeous sunset with a look of languid admiration,
Sir Norman passed his arm through that of his friend, and they walked
on at rather a rapid pace, in the direction of old London Bridge. There
were few people abroad, except the watchmen walking slowly up and down
before the plague-stricken houses; but in every street they passed
through they noticed huge piles of wood and coal heaped down the centre.
Smoking zealously they had walked on for a season in silence, when
Ormiston ceased puffing for a moment, to inquire:

“What are all these for? This is a strange time, I should imagine, for
bonfires.”

“They're not bonfires,” said Sir Norman; “at least they are not intended
for that; and if your head was not fuller of that masked Witch of Endor
than common sense (for I believe she is nothing better than a witch),
you could not have helped knowing. The Lord Mayor of London has been
inspired suddenly, with a notion, that if several thousand fires are
kindled at once in the streets, it will purify the air, and check the
pestilence; so when St. Paul's tolls the hour of midnight, all these
piles are to be fired. It will be a glorious illumination, no doubt; but
as to its stopping the progress of the plague, I am afraid that it is
altogether too good to be true.”

“Why should you doubt it? The plague cannot last forever.”

“No. But Lilly, the astrologer, who predicted its coming, also foretold
that it would last for many months yet; and since one prophecy has come
true, I see no reason why the other should not.”

“Except the simple one that there would be nobody left alive to take it.
All London will be lying in the plague-pits by that time.”

“A pleasant prospect; but a true one, I have no doubt. And, as I have no
ambition to be hurled headlong into one of those horrible holes, I shall
leave town altogether in a few days. And, Ormiston, I would strongly
recommend you to follow my example.”

“Not I!” said Ormiston, in a tone of gloomy resolution. “While La Masque
stays, so will I.”

“And perhaps die of the plague in a week.”

“So be it! I don't fear the plague half as much as I do the thought of
losing her!”

Again Sir Norman stared.

“Oh, I see! It's a hopeless case! Faith, I begin to feel curious to see
this enchantress, who has managed so effectually to turn your brain.
When did you see her last?”

“Yesterday,” said Ormiston, with a deep sigh. “And if she were made of
granite, she could not be harder to me than she is!”

“So she doesn't care about you, then?”

“Not she! She has a little Blenheim lapdog, that she loves a thousand
times more than she ever will me!”

“Then what an idiot you are, to keep haunting her like her shadow! Why
don't you be a man, and tear out from your heart such a goddess?”

“Ah! that's easily said; but if you were in my place, you'd act exactly
as I do.”

“I don't believe it. It's not in me to go mad about anything with a
masked face and a marble heart. If I loved any woman--which, thank
Fortune! at this present time I do not--and she had the bad taste not
to return it, I should take my hat, make her a bow, and go directly and
love somebody else made of flesh and blood, instead of cast iron! You
know the old song, Ormiston:


               'If she be not fair for me
                 What care I how fair she be!'”

“Kingsley, you know nothing about it!” said Ormiston, impatiently. “So
stop talking nonsense. If you are cold-blooded, I am not; and--I love
her!”

Sir Norman slightly shrugged his shoulders, and flung his smoked-out
weed into a heap of fire-wood.

“Are we near her house?” he asked. “Yonder is the bridge.”

“And yonder is the house,” replied Ormiston, pointing to a large
ancient building--ancient even for those times--with three stories, each
projecting over the other. “See! while the houses on either side are
marked as pest-stricken, hers alone bears no cross. So it is: those
who cling to life are stricken with death: and those who, like me, are
desperate, even death shuns.”

“Why, my dear Ormiston, you surely are not so far gone as that? Upon my
honor, I had no idea you were in such a bad way.”

“I am nothing but a miserable wretch! and I wish to Heaven I was in
yonder dead-cart, with the rest of them--and she, too, if she never
intends to love me!”

Ormiston spoke with such fierce earnestness, that there was no doubting
his sincerity; and Sir Norman became profoundly shocked--so much so,
that he did not speak again until they were almost at the door. Then he
opened his lips to ask, in a subdued tone:

“She has predicted the future for you--what did she foretell?”

“Nothing good; no fear of there being anything in store for such an
unlucky dog as I am.”

“Where did she learn this wonderful black art of hers?”

“In the East, I believe. She has been there and all over the world; and
now visits England for the first time.”

“She has chosen a sprightly season for her visit. Is she not afraid of
the plague, I wonder?”

“No; she fears nothing,” said Ormiston, as he knocked loudly at the
door. “I begin to believe she is made of adamant instead of what other
women are made of.”

“Which is a rib, I believe,” observed Sir Norman, thoughtfully. “And
that accounts, I dare say, for their being of such a crooked and
cantankerous nature. They're a wonderful race women are; and for what
Inscrutable reason it has pleased Providence to create them--”

The opening of the door brought to a sudden end this little touch of
moralizing, and a wrinkled old porter thrust out a very withered and
unlovely face.

“La Masque at home?” inquired Ormiston, stepping in, without ceremony.

The old man nodded, and pointed up stairs; and with a “This way,
Kingsley,” Ormiston sprang lightly up, three at a time, followed in the
same style by Sir Norman.

“You seem pretty well acquainted with the latitude and longitude of this
place,” observed that young gentleman, as they passed into a room at the
head of the stairs.

“I ought to be; I've been here often enough,” said Ormiston. “This is
the common waiting-room for all who wish to consult La Masque. That old
bag of bones who let us in has gone to announce us.”

Sir Norman took a seat, and glanced curiously round the room. It was
a common-place apartment enough, with a floor of polished black oak,
slippery as ice, and shining like glass; a few old Flemish paintings on
the walls; a large, round table in the centre of the floor, on which
lay a pair of the old musical instruments called “virginals.” Two large,
curtainless windows, with minute diamond-shaped panes, set in leaden
casements, admitted the golden and crimson light.

“For the reception-room of a sorceress,” remarked Sir Norman, with an
air of disappointed criticism, “there is nothing very wonderful about
all this. How is it she spaes fortunes any way? As Lilly does by maps
and charts; or as these old Eastern mufti do it by magic mirrors and all
each fooleries?”

“Neither,” said Ormiston, “her style in more like that of the Indian
almechs, who show you your destiny in a well. She has a sort of magic
lake in her room, and--but you will see it all for yourself presently.”

“I have always heard,” said Sir Norman, in the same meditative way,
“that truth lies at the bottom of a well, and I am glad some one has
turned up at last who is able to fish it out. Ah! Here comes our ancient
Mercury to show us to the presence of your goddess.”

The door opened, and the “old bag of bones,” as Ormiston irreverently
styled his lady-love's ancient domestic, made a sign for them to follow
him. Leading the way down along a corridor, he flung open a pair of
shining folding-doors at the end, and ushered them at once into the
majestic presence of the sorceress and her magic room. Both gentlemen
doffed their plumed hats. Ormiston stepped forward at once; but Sir
Norman discreetly paused in the doorway to contemplate the scene of
action. As he slowly did so, a look of deep displeasure settled on his
features, on finding it not half so awful as he had supposed.

In some ways it was very like the room they had left, being low, large,
and square, and having floors, walls and ceiling paneled with glossy
black oak. But it had no windows--a large bronze lamp, suspended from
the centre of the ceiling, shed a flickering, ghostly light. There were
no paintings--some grim carvings of skulls, skeletons, and
serpents, pleasantly wreathed the room--neither were there seats
nor tables--nothing but a huge ebony caldron at the upper end of the
apartment, over which a grinning skeleton on wires, with a scythe in
one hand of bone, and an hour-glass in the other, kept watch and ward.
Opposite this cheerful-looking guardian, was a tall figure in black,
standing an motionless as if it, too, was carved in ebony. It was a
female figure, very tall and slight, but as beautifully symmetrical as
a Venus Celestis. Her dress was of black velvet, that swept the polished
floor, spangled all over with stars of gold and rich rubies. A profusion
of shining black hair fell in waves and curls almost to her feet; but
her face, from forehead to chin, was completely hidden by a black velvet
mask. In one hand, exquisitely small and white, she held a gold casket,
blazing (like her dress) with rubies, and with the other she toyed with
a tame viper, that had twined itself round her wrist. This was doubtless
La Masque, and becoming conscious of that fact Sir Norman made her a
low and courtly bow. She returned it by a slight bend of the head, and
turning toward his companion, spoke:

“You here, again, Mr. Ormiston! To what am I indebted for the honor of
two visits in two days?”

Her voice, Sir Norman thought, was the sweetest he had ever heard,
musical as a chime of silver bells, soft as the tones of an aeolian harp
through which the west wind plays.

“Madam, I am aware my visits are undesired,” said Ormiston, with a
flushing cheek and, slightly tremulous voice; “but I have merely come
with my friend, Sir Norman Kingsley, who wishes to know what the future
has in store for him.”

Thus invoked, Sir Norman Kingsley stepped forward with another low bow
to the masked lady.

“Yes, madam, I have long heard that those fair fingers can withdraw the
curtain of the future, and I have come to see what Dame Destiny is going
to do for me.”

“Sir Norman Kingsley is welcome,” said the sweet voice, “and shall see
what he desires. There is but one condition, that he will keep perfectly
silent; for if he speaks, the scene he beholds will vanish. Come
forward!”

Sir Norman compressed his lips as closely as if they were forever
hermetically sealed, and came forward accordingly. Leaning over the edge
of the ebony caldron, he found that it contained nothing more dreadful
than water, for he labored under a vague and unpleasant idea that, like
the witches' caldron in Macbeth, it might be filled with serpents' blood
and childrens' brains. La Masque opened her golden casket, and took from
it a portion of red powder, with which it was filled. Casting it into
the caldron, she murmured an invocation in Sanscrit, or Coptic, or some
other unknown tongue, and slowly there arose a dense cloud of dark-red
smoke, that nearly filled the room. Had Sir Norman ever read the story
of Aladdin, he would probably have thought of it then; but the young
courtier did not greatly affect literature of any kind, and thought of
nothing now but of seeing something when the smoke cleared away. It was
rather long in doing so, and when it did, he saw nothing at first but
his own handsome, half-serious, half-incredulous face; but gradually a
picture, distinct and clear, formed itself at the bottom, and Sir Norman
gazed with bewildered eyes. He saw a large room filled with a sparkling
crowd, many of them ladies, splendidly arrayed and flashing in jewels,
and foremost among them stood one whose beauty surpassed anything he
had ever before dreamed of. She wore the robes of a queen, purple and
ermine--diamonds blazed on the beautiful neck, arms, and fingers, and
a tiara of the same brilliants crowned her regal head. In one hand she
held a sceptre; what seemed to be a throne was behind her, but something
that surprised Sir Norton most of all was, to find himself standing
beside her, the cynosure of all eyes. While he yet gazed in mingled
astonishment and incredulity, the scene faded away, and another took its
place. This time a dungeon-cell, damp and dismal; walls, and floor, and
ceiling covered with green and hideous slime. A small lamp stood on the
floor, and by its sickly, watery gleam, he saw himself again standing,
pale and dejected, near the wall. But he was not alone; the same
glittering vision in purple and diamonds stood before him, and suddenly
he drew his sword and plunged it up to the hilt in her heart! The
beautiful vision fell like a stone at his feet, and the sword was drawn
out reeking with her life-blood. This was a little too much for the real
Sir Norman, and with an expression of indignant consternation, he sprang
upright. Instantly it all faded away and the reflection of his own
excited face looked up at him from the caldron.

“I told you not to speak,” said La Masque, quietly, “but you must look
on still another scene.”

Again she threw a portion of the contents of the casket into the
caldron, and “spake aloud the words of power.” Another cloud of smoke
arose and filled the room, and when it cleared away, Sir Norman beheld
a third and less startling sight. The scene and place he could not
discover, but it seemed to him like night and a storm. Two men were
lying on the ground, and bound fast together, it appeared to him. As he
looked, it faded away, and once more his own face seemed to mock him in
the clear water.

“Do you know those two last figures!” asked the lady.

“I do,” said Sir Norman, promptly; “it was Ormiston and myself.”

“Right! and one of them was dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Sir Norman, with a perceptible start. “Which one,
madam?”

“If you cannot tell that, neither can I. If there is anything further
you wish to see, I am quite willing to show it to you.”

“I'm obliged to you,” said Sir Norman, stepping back; “but no more at
present, thank you. Do you mean to say, madam, that I'm some day to
murder a lady, especially one so beautiful as she I just now saw?”

“I have said nothing--all you've seen will come to pass, and whether
your destiny be for good or evil, I have nothing to do with it, except,”
 said the sweet voice, earnestly, “that if La Masque could strew Sir
Norman Kingsley's pathway with roses, she would most assuredly do so.”

“Madam, you are too kind,” said that young gentleman, laying his hand on
his heart, while Ormiston scowled darkly--“more especially as I've the
misfortune to be a perfect stranger to you.”

“Not so, Sir Norman. I have known you this many a day; and before long
we shall be better acquainted. Permit me to wish you good evening!”

At this gentle hint, both gentlemen bowed themselves out, and soon
found themselves in the street, with very different expressions of
countenance. Sir Norman looking considerably pleased and decidedly
puzzled, and Mr. Ormiston looking savagely and uncompromisingly jealous.
The animated skeleton who had admitted them closed the door after them;
and the two friends stood in the twilight on London Bridge.





CHAPTER II. THE DEAD BRIDE

 “Well,” said Ormiston, drawing a long bath, “what do you think of that?”

“Think? Don't ask me yet.” said Sir Norman, looking rather bewildered.
“I'm in such a state of mystification that I don't rightly know whether
I'm standing on my head or feet. For one thing, I have come to the
conclusion that your masked ladylove must be enchantingly beautiful.”

“Have I not told you that a thousand times, O thou of little faith? But
why have you come to such a conclusion?”

“Because no woman with such a figure, such a voice and such hands could
be otherwise.”

“I knew you would own it some day. Do you wonder now that I love her?”

“Oh! as to loving her,” said Sir Norman, coolly, “that's quite another
thing. I could no more love her or her hands, voice, and shape, than I
could a figure in wood or wax; but I admire her vastly, and think her
extremely clever. I will never forget that face in the caldron. It was
the most exquisitely beautiful I ever saw.”

“In love with the shadow of a face! Why, you are a thousandfold more
absurd than I.”

“No,” said Sir Norman, thoughtfully, “I don't know as I'm in love with
it; but if ever I see a living face like it, I certainly shall be. How
did La Masque do it, I wonder?”

“You had better ask her,” said Ormiston, bitterly. “She seems to have
taken an unusual interest in you at first sight. She would strew your
path with roses, forsooth! Nothing earthly, I believe, would make her
say anything half so tender to me.”

Sir Norman laughed, and stroked his moustache complacently.

“All a matter of taste, my dear fellow: and these women are noted for
their perfection in that line. I begin to admire La Masque more and
more, and I think you had better give up the chase, and let me take your
place. I don't believe you have the ghost of a chance, Ormiston.”

“I don't believe it myself,” said Ormiston, with a desperate face “but
until the plague carries me off I cannot give her up; and the sooner
that happens, the better. Ha! what is this?”

It was a piercing shriek--no unusual sound; and as he spoke, the door of
an adjoining house was flung open, a woman rushed wildly out, fled down
an adjoining street, and disappeared.

Sir Norman and his companion looked at each other, and then at the
house.

“What's all this about?” demanded Ormiston.

“That's a question I can't take it upon myself to answer,” said Sir
Norman; “and the only way to solve the mystery, is to go in and see.”

“It may be the plague,” said Ormiston, hesitating. “Yet the house is not
marked. There is a watchman. I will ask him.”

The man with the halberd in his hand was walking up and down before an
adjoining house, bearing the ominous red cross and piteous inscription:
“Lord have mercy on us!”

“I don't know, sir,” was his answer to Ormiston. “If any one there has
the plague, they must have taken it lately; for I heard this morning
there was to be a wedding there to-night.”

“I never heard of any one screaming in that fashion about a wedding,”
 said Ormiston, doubtfully. “Do you know who lives there?”

“No, sir. I only came here, myself, yesterday, but two or three times
to-day I have seen a very beautiful young lady looking out of the
window.”

Ormiston thanked the man, and went back to report to his friend.

“A beautiful young lady!” said Sir Norman, with energy. “Then I mean to
go directly up and see about it, and you can follow or not, just as you
please.”

So saying, Sir Norman entered the open doorway, and found himself in a
long hall, flanked by a couple of doors on each side. These he opened
in rapid succession, finding nothing but silence and solitude; and
Ormiston--who, upon reflection, chose to follow--ran up a wide and
sweeping staircase at the end of the hall. Sir Norman followed him, and
they came to a hall similar to the one below. A door to the right lay
open; and both entered without ceremony, and looked around.

The room was spacious, and richly furnished. Just enough light stole
through the oriel window at the further end, draped with crimson satin
embroidered with gold, to show it. The floor was of veined wood of many
colors, arranged in fanciful mosaics, and strewn with Turkish rugs and
Persian mats of gorgeous colors. The walls were carved, the ceiling
corniced, and all fretted with gold network and gilded mouldings. On a
couch covered with crimson satin, like the window drapery, lay a cithren
and some loose sheets of music. Near it was a small marble table,
covered with books and drawings, with a decanter of wine and an
exquisite little goblet of Bohemian glass. The marble mantel was strewn
with ornaments of porcelain and alabaster, and a beautifully-carved vase
of Parian marble stood in the centre, filled with brilliant flowers.
A great mirror reflected back the room, and beneath it stood a
toilet-table, strewn with jewels, laces, perfume-bottles, and an array
of costly little feminine trifles such as ladies were as fond of two
centuries ago as they are to-day. Evidently it was a lady's chamber; for
in a recess near the window stood a great quaint carved bedstead, with
curtains and snowy lace, looped back with golden arrows and scarlet
ribbons. Some one lay on it, too--at least, Ormiston thought so; and he
went cautiously forward, drew the curtain, and looked down.

“Great Heaven! what a beautiful face!” was his cry, as he bent still
further down.

“What the plague is the matter?” asked Sir Norman, coming forward.

“You have said it,” said Ormiston, recoiling. “The plague is the matter.
There lies one dead of it!”

Curiosity proving stronger than fear, Sir Norman stepped forward to look
at the corpse. It was a young girl with a face as lovely as a poet's
vision. That face was like snow, now; and, in its calm, cold majesty,
looked as exquisitely perfect as some ancient Grecian statue. The low,
pearly brow, the sweet, beautiful lips, the delicate oval outline of
countenance, were perfect. The eyes were closed, and the long dark
lashes rested on the ivory cheeks. A profusion of shining dark hair fell
in elaborate curls over her neck and shoulders. Her dress was that of
a bride; a robe of white satin brocaded with silver, fairly dazzling in
its shining radiance, and as brief in the article of sleeves and neck
as that of any modern belle. A circlet of pearls were clasped round her
snow-white throat, and bracelets of the same jewels encircled the snowy
taper arms. On her head she wore a bridal wreath and veil--the former
of jewels, the latter falling round her like a cloud of mist. Everything
was perfect, from the wreath and veil to the tiny sandaled feet and
lying there in her mute repose she looked more like some exquisite
piece of sculpture than anything that had ever lived and moved in this
groveling world of ours. But from one shoulder the dress had been pulled
down, and there lay a great livid purple plague-spot!

“Come away!” said Ormiston, catching his companion by the arm. “It is
death to remain here!”

Sir Norman had been standing like one in a trance, from which
this address roused him, and he grasped Ormiston's shoulder almost
frantically.

“Look there, Ormiston! There lies the very face that sorceress showed
me, fifteen minutes ago, in her infernal caldron! I would know it at the
other end of the world!”

“Are you sure?” said Ormiston, glancing again with new curiosity at the
marble face. “I never saw anything half so beautiful in all my life; but
you see she is dead of the plague.”

“Dead? she cannot be! Nothing so perfect could die!”

“Look there,” said Ormiston pointing to the plague-spot. “There is the
fatal token! For Heaven's sake let us get out of this, or we will share
the same fate before morning!”

But Sir Norman did not move--could not move; he stood there rooted to
the spot by the spell of that lovely, lifeless face.

Usually the plague left its victims hideous, ghastly, discolored, and
covered with blotches; but in this case then was nothing to mar the
perfect beauty of the satin-smooth skin, but that one dreadful mark.

There Sir Norman stood in his trance, as motionless as if some genie out
of the “Arabian Nights” had suddenly turned him into stone (a trick they
were much addicted to), and destined him to remain there an ornamental
fixture for ever. Ormiston looked at him distractedly, uncertain whether
to try moral suasion or to take him by the collar and drag him headlong
down the stairs, when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came
to his relief. A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly
rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: “Bring out your dead! Bring out
your dead!”

Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already almost
full on it way to the plague-pit. The driver stopped at his call, and
instantly followed him up stairs, and into the room. Glancing at the
body with the utmost sang-froid, he touched the dress, and indifferently
remarked:

“A bride, I should say; and an uncommonly handsome one too. We'll just
take her along as she is, and strip these nice things off the body when
we get it to the plague-pit.”

So saying, he wrapped her in the sheet, and directing Ormiston to take
hold of the two lower ends, took the upper corners himself, with the
air of a man quite used to that sort of thing. Ormiston recoiled from
touching it; and Sir Norman seeing what they were about to do, and
knowing there was no help for it, made up his mind, like a sensible
young man as he was, to conceal his feelings, and caught hold of the
sheet himself. In this fashion the dead bride was carried down stairs,
and laid upon a shutter on the top of a pile of bodies in the dead-cart.

It was now almost dark, and as the cart started, the great clock of St.
Paul's struck eight. St. Michael's, St Alban's, and the others took up
the sound; and the two young men paused to listen. For many weeks the
sky had been clear, brilliant, and blue; but on this night dark clouds
were scudding in wild unrest across it, and the air was oppressingly
close and sultry.

“Where are you going now?” said Ormiston. “Are you for Whitehall's to
night?”

“No!” said Sir Norman, rather dejectedly, turning to follow the
pest-cart. “I am for the plague-pit in Finsbury fields!”

“Nonsense, man!” exclaimed Ormiston, energetically, “what will take you
there? You surely are not mad enough to follow the body of that dead
girl?”

“I shall follow it! You can come or not, just as you please.”

“Oh! if you are determined, I will go with you, of course; but it is the
craziest freak I ever heard of. After this, you need never laugh at me.”

“I never will,” said Sir Norman, moodily; “for if you love a face you
have never seen, I love one I have only looked on when dead. Does it
not seem sacrilege to throw any one so like an angel into that horrible
plague-pit?”

“I never saw an angel,” said Ormiston, as he and his friend started
to go after the dead-cart. “And I dare say there have been scores as
beautiful as that poor girl thrown into the plague-pit before now. I
wonder why the house has been deserted, and if she was really a bride.
The bridegroom could not have loved her much, I fancy, or not even the
pestilence could have scared him away.”

“But, Ormiston, what an extraordinary thing it is that it should be
precisely the same face that the fortune-teller showed me. There she
was alive, and here she is dead; so I've lost all faith in La Masque for
ever.”

Ormiston looked doubtful.

“Are you quite sure it is the same, Kingsley?”

“Quite sure?” said Sir Norman, indignantly. “Of course I am! Do you
think I could be mistaken is such a case? I tell you I would know that
face at Kamschatka or, the North Pole; for I don't believe there ever
was such another created.”

“So be it, then! Your object, of course, in following that cart is, to
take a last look at her?”

“Precisely so. Don't talk; I feel in no mood for it just at present.”

Ormiston smiled to himself, and did not talk, accordingly; and in
silence the two friends followed the gloomy dead-cart. A faint young
moon, pale and sickly, was struggling dimly through drifts of dark
clouds, and lighted the lonesome, dreary streets with a wan, watery
glimmer. For weeks, the weather had been brilliantly fine--the days all
sunshine, the nights all moonlight; but now Ormiston, looking up at the
troubled face of the sky, concluded mentally that the Lord Mayor had
selected an unpropitious night for the grand illumination. Sir Norman,
with his eyes on the pest-cart, and the long white figure therein, took
no heed of anything in the heaven above or in the earth beneath,
and strode along in dismal silence till they reached, at last, their
journey's end.

As the cart stopped the two young men approached the edge of the
plague-pit, and looked in with a shudder. Truly it was a horrible sight,
that heaving, putrid sea of corruption; for the bodies of the miserable
victims were thrown in in cartfuls, and only covered with a handful of
earth and quicklime. Here and there, through the cracking and sinking
surface, could be seen protruding a fair white arm, or a baby face,
mingled with the long, dark tresses of maidens, the golden curls of
children, and the white hairs of old age. The pestilential effluvia
arising from the dreadful mass was so overpowering that both shrank
back, faint and sick, after a moment's survey. It was indeed as Sir
Norman had, said, a horrible grave wherein to lie.

Meantime the driver, with an eye to business, and no time for such
nonsense as melancholy moralizing, had laid the body of the young girl
on the ground, and briskly turned his cart and dumped the remainder of
his load into the pit. Then, having flung a few handfuls of clay over
it, he unwound the sheet, and kneeling beside the body, prepared to
remove the jewels. The rays of the moon and his dark lantern fell on the
lovely, snow-white face together, and Sir Norman groaned despairingly as
he saw its death-cold rigidity. The man had stripped the rings off the
fingers, the bracelets off the arms; but as he was about to perform
the same operation toward the necklace, he was stopped by a startling
interruption enough. In his haste, the clasp entered the beautiful neck,
inflicting a deep scratch, from which the blood spouted; and at the same
instant the dead girl opened her eyes with a shrill cry. Uttering a yell
of terror, as well he might, the man sprang back and gazed at her with
horror, believing that his sacrilegious robbery had brought the dead
to life. Even the two young men--albeit, neither of them given to
nervousness nor cowardice--recoiled for an instant, and stared aghast.
Then, as the whole truth struck them, that the girl had been in a deep
swoon and not dead, both simultaneously darted forward, and forgetting
all fear of infection, knelt by her side. A pair of great, lustrous
black eyes were staring wildly around, and fixed themselves first on one
face and then on the other.

“Where am I?” she exclaimed, with a terrified look, as she strove to
raise herself on her elbow, and fell instantaneously back with a cry
of agony, as she felt for the first time the throbbing anguish of the
wound.

“You are with friends, dear lady!” said Sir Norman, in a voice quite
tremulous between astonishment and delight. “Fear nothing, for you shall
be saved.”

The great black eyes turned wildly upon him, while a fierce spasm
convulsed the beautiful face.

“O, my God, I remember! I have the plague!” And, with a prolonged shriek
of anguish, that thrilled even to the hardened heart of the dead-cart
driver, the girl fell back senseless again. Sir Norman Kingsley
sprang to his feet, and with more the air of a frantic lunatic than a
responsible young English knight, caught the cold form in his arms, laid
it in the dead-cart, and was about springing into the driver's seat,
when that individual indignantly interposed.

“Come, now; none of that! If you were the king himself, you shouldn't
run away with my cart in that fashion; so you just get out of my place
as fast as you can!”

“My dear Kingsley, what are you about to do?” asked Ormiston, catching
his excited friend by the arm.

“Do!” exclaimed Sir Norman, in a high key. “Can't you see that for
yourself! And I'm going to have that girl cured of the plague, if there
is such a thing as a doctor to be had for love or money in London.”

“You had better have her taken to the pest house at once, then; there
are chirurgeons and nurses enough there.”

“To the pest-house! Why man, I might as well have her thrown into the
plague-pit there, at once! Not I! I shall have her taken to my own
house, and there properly cared for, and this good fellow will drive her
there instantly.”

Sir Norman backed this insinuation by putting a broad gold-piece into
the driver's hand, which instantly produced a magical effect on his
rather surly countenance.

“Certainly, sir,” he began, springing into his seat with alacrity.
“Where shall I drive the young lady to?”

“Follow me,” said Sir Norman. “Come along, Ormiston.” And seizing
his friend by the arm, he hurried along with a velocity rather
uncomfortable, considering they both wore cloaks, and the night was
excessively sultry. The gloomy vehicle and its fainting burden followed
close behind.

“What do you mean to do with her?” asked Ormiston, as soon as he found
breath enough to speak.

“Haven't I told you?” said Sir Norman, impatiently. “Take her home, of
course.”

“And after that?”

“Go for a doctor.”

“And after that?”

“Take care of her till she gets well.”

“And after that?”

“Why--find out her history, and all about her.”

“And after that?”

“After that! After that! How do I know what after that!” exclaimed Sir
Norman, rather fiercely. “Ormiston, what do you mean?”

Ormiston laughed.

“And after that you'll marry her, I suppose!”

“Perhaps I may, if she will have me. And what if I do?”

“Oh, nothing! Only it struck me you may be saving another man's wife.”

“That's true!” said Sir Norman, in a subdued tone, “and if such should
unhappily be the case, nothing will remain but to live in hopes that he
may be carried off by the plague.”

“Pray Heaven that we may not be carried off by it ourselves!” said
Ormiston, with a slight shudder. “I shall dream of nothing but that
horrible plague-pit for a week. If it were not for La Masque, I would
not stay another hour in this pest-stricken city.”

“Here we are,” was Sir Norman's rather inapposite answer, as they
entered Piccadilly, and stopped before a large and handsome house, whose
gloomy portal was faintly illuminated by a large lamp. “Here, my man
just carry the lady in.”

He unlocked the door as he spoke, and led the way across a long hall to
a sleeping chamber, elegantly fitter up. The man placed the body on the
bed and departed while Sir Norman, seizing a handbell, rang a peal that
brought a staid-looking housekeeper to the scene directly. Seeing a
lady, young and beautiful, in bride robes, lying apparently dead on her
young master's bed at that hour of the night, the discreet matron, over
whose virtuous head fifty years and a snow-white cap had passed, started
back with a slight scream.

“Gracious me, Sir Norman! What on earth is the meaning of this?”

“My dear Mrs. Preston,” began Sir Norman blandly, “this young lady is
ill of the plague, and--”

But all further explanation was cut short by a horrified shriek from the
old lady, and a precipitate rush from the room. Down stairs she flew,
informing the other servants as she went, between her screams, and when
Sir Norman, in a violent rage, went in search of her five minutes after,
he found not only the kitchen, but the whole house deserted.

“Well,” said Ormiston, as Sir Norman strode back, looking fiery hot and
savagely angry.

“Well, they have all fled, every man and woman of them, the--” Sir
Norman ground out something not quite proper, behind his moustache. “I
shall have to go for the doctor, myself. Doctor Forbes is a friend of
mine, and lives near; and you,” looking at him rather doubtfully, “would
you mind staying here, lest she should recover consciousness before I
return?”

“To tell you the truth,” said Ormiston, with charming frankness, “I
should! The lady is extremely beautiful, I must own; but she looks
uncomfortably corpse-like at this present moment. I do not wish to die
of the plague, either, until I see La Masque once more; and so if it is
all the same to you, my dear friend, I will have the greatest pleasure
in stepping round with you to the doctor's.”

Sir Norman, though he did not much approve of this, could not very well
object, and the two sallied forth together. Walking a short distance
up Piccadilly, they struck off into a bye street, and soon reached the
house they were in search of. Sir Norman knocked loudly at the door,
which was opened by the doctor himself. Briefly and rapidly Sir Norman
informed him how and where his services were required; and the doctor
being always provided with everything necessary for such cases, set out
with him immediately. Fifteen minutes after leaving his own house, Sir
Norman was back there again, and standing in his own chamber. But a
simultaneous exclamation of amazement and consternation broke from him
and Ormiston, as on entering the room they found the bed empty, and the
lady gone!

A dead pause followed, during which the three looked blankly at the bed,
and then at each other. The scene, no doubt, would have been ludicrous
enough to a third party; but neither of our trio could saw anything
whatever to laugh at. Ormiston was the first to speak.

“What in Heaven's name has happened!” he wonderingly exclaimed.

“Some one has been here,” said Sir Norman, turning very pale, “and
carried her off while we were gone.”

“Let us search the house,” said the doctor; “you should have locked your
door, Sir Norman; but it may not be too late yet.”

Acting on the hint, Sir Norman seized the lamp burning on the table, and
started on the search. His two friends followed him, and


       “The highest, the lowest, the loveliest spot,
        They searched for the lady, and found her not.”

No, though there was not the slightest trace of robbers or intruders,
neither was there the slightest trace of the beautiful plague-patient.
Everything in the house was precisely as it always was, but the silver
shining vision was gone.





CHAPTER III. THE COURT PAGE

The search was given over at last in despair, and the doctor took his
hat and disappeared. Sir Norman and Ormiston stopped in the lower hall
and looked at each other in mute amaze.

“What can it all mean?” asked Ormiston, appealing more to society at
large than to his bewildered companion.

“I haven't the faintest idea,” said Sir Norman, distractedly; “only I am
pretty certain, if I don't find her, I shall do something so desperate
that the plague will be a trifle compared to it!”

“It seems almost impossible that she can have been carried off--doesn't
it?”

“If she has!” exclaimed Sir Norman, “and I find out the abductor, he
won't have a whole bone in his body two minutes after!”

“And yet more impossible that she can have gone off herself,” pursued
Ormiston with the air of one entering upon an abstruse subject, and
taking no heed whatever of his companion's marginal notes.

“Gone off herself! Is the man crazy?” inquired Sir Norman, with a stare.
“Fifteen minutes before we left her dead, or in a dead swoon, which is
all the same in Greek, and yet he talks of her getting up and going off
herself!”

“In fact, the only way to get at the bottom of the mystery,” said
Ormiston, “is to go in search of her. Sleeping, I suppose, is out of the
question.”

“Of course it is! I shall never sleep again till I find her!”

They passed out, and Sir Norman this time took the precaution of turning
the key, thereby fulfilling the adage of locking the stable-door when
the steed was stolen. The night had grown darker and hotter; and as they
walked along, the clock of St. Paul's tolled nine.

“And now, where shall we go?” inquired Sir Norman, as they rapidly
hurried on.

“I should recommend visiting the house we found her first; if not there,
then we can try the pest-house.”

Sir Norman shuddered.

“Heaven forefend she should be there! It is the most mysterious thing
ever I heard of!”

“What do you think now of La Masque's prediction--dare you doubt still?”

“Ormiston, I don't know what to think. It is the same face I saw, and
yet--”

“Well--and yet--”

“I can't tell you--I am fairly bewildered. If we don't find the lady at
her own house, I have half a mind to apply to your friend, La Masque,
again.”

“The wisest thing you could do, my dear fellow. If any one knows your
unfortunate beloved's whereabouts, it is La Masque, depend upon it.”

“That's settled then; and now, don't talk, for conversation at this
smart pace I don't admire.”

Ormiston, like the amiable, obedient young man that he was, instantly
held his tongue, and they strode along at a breathless pace. There was
an unusual concourse of men abroad that night, watching the gloomy face
of the sky, and waiting the hour of midnight to kindle the myriad of
fires; and as the two tall, dark figures went rapidly by, all supposed
it to be a case of life or death. In the eyes of one of the party,
perhaps it was; and neither halted till they came once more in sight
of the house, whence a short time previously they had carried the
death-cold bride. A row of lamps over the door-portals shed a yellow,
uncertain light around, while the lights of barges and wherries were
sown like stars along the river.

“There is the house,” cried Ormiston, and both paused to take breath;
“and I am about at the last gasp. I wonder if your pretty mistress would
feel grateful if she knew what I have come through to-night for her
sweet sake?”

“There are no lights,” said Sir Norman, glancing anxiously up at the
darkened front of the house; “even the link before the door is unlit.
Surely she cannot be there.”

“That remains to be seen, though I'm very doubtful about it myself. Ah!
whom have we here?”

The door of the house in question opened, as he spoke, and a figure--a
man's figure, wearing a slouched hat and long, dark cloak, came slowly
out. He stopped before the house and looked at it long and earnestly;
and, by the twinkling light of the lamps, the friends saw enough of him
to know he was young and distinguished looking.

“I should not wonder in the least if that were the bridegroom,”
 whispered Ormiston, maliciously.

Sir Norman turned pale with jealousy, and laid his hand on his sword,
with a quick and natural impulse to make the bride a widow forthwith.
But he checked the desire for an instant as the brigandish-looking
gentleman, after a prolonged stare at the premises, stepped up to the
watchman, who had given them their information an hour or two before,
and who was still at his post. The friends could not be seen, but they
could hear, and they did so very earnestly indeed.

“Can you tell me, my friend,” began the cloaked unknown, “what has
become of the people residing in yonder house?”

The watchman, held his lamp up to the face of the interlocutor--a
handsome face by the way, what could be seen of it--and indulged himself
in a prolonged survey.

“Well!” said the gentleman, impatiently, “have you no tongue, fellow?
Where are they, I say?”

“Blessed if I know,” said the watchman. “I, wasn't set here to keep
guard over them was I? It looks like it, though,” said the man in
parenthesis; “for this makes twice to-night I've been asked questions
about it.”

“Ah!” said the gentleman, with a slight start. “Who asked you before,
pray?”

“Two young gentlemen; lords, I expect, by their dress. Somebody ran
screaming out of the house, and they wanted to know what was wrong.”

“Well?” said the stranger, breathlessly, “and then?”

“And then, as I couldn't tell them they went in to see for themselves,
and shortly after came out with a body wrapped in a sheet, which they
put in a pest-cart going by, and had it buried, I suppose, with the rest
in the plague-pit.”

The stranger fairly staggered back, and caught at a pillar near for
support. For nearly ten minutes, he stood perfectly motionless, and
then, without a word, started up and walked rapidly away. The friends
looked after him curiously till he was out of sight.

“So she is not there,” said Ormiston; “and our mysterious friend in
the cloak is as much at a loss as we are ourselves. Where shall we go
next--to La Masque or the peat-house?”

“To La Masque--I hate the idea of the pest-house!”

“She may be there, nevertheless; and under present circumstances, it is
the best place for her.”

“Don't talk of it!” said Sir Norman, impatiently. “I do not and will not
believe she is there! If the sorceress shows her to me in the caldron
again, I verily believe I shall jump in head foremost.”

“And I verily believe we will not find La Masque at home. She wanders
through the streets at all hours, but particularly affects the night.”

“We shall try, however. Come along!”

The house of the sorceress was but a short distance from that of
Sir Norman's plague-stricken lady-love's; and shod with a sort of
seven-league boots, they soon reached it. Like the other, it was all
dark and deserted.

“This is the home,” said Ormiston, looking at it doubtfully, “but where
is La Masque?”

“Here!” said a silvery voice at his elbow; and turning round, they saw
a tall, slender figure, cloaked, hooded, and masked. “Surely, you two do
not want me again to-night?”

Both gentlemen doffed their plumed hats, and simultaneously bowed.

“Fortune favors us,” said Sir Norman. “Yes, madam, it is even so; once
again to-night we would tax your skill.”

“Well, what do you wish to know?”

“Madam, we are in the street.”

“Sir, I'm aware of that. Pray proceed.”

“Will you not have the goodness to permit us to enter?” said Sir Norman,
inclined to feel offended. “How can you tell us what we wish to know,
here?”

“That is my secret,” said the sweet voice. “Probably Sir Norman Kingsley
wishes to know something of the fair lady I showed him some time ago?”

“Madam, you've guessed it. It is for that purpose I have sought you
now.”

“Then you have seen her already?”

“I have.”

“And love her?”

“With all my heart!”

“A rapid flame,” said the musical voice, in a tone that had just a
thought of sarcasm; “for one of whose very existence you did not dream
two hours ago.”

“Madame La Masque,” said Norman, flushed sad haughty, “love is not a
question of time.”

“Sir Norman Kingsley,” said the lady, somewhat sadly, “I am aware of
that. Tell me what you wish to know, and if it be in my power, you shall
know it.”

“A thousand thanks! Tell me, then, is she whom I seek living or dead?”

“She is alive.”

“She has the plague?” said Sir Norman.

“I know it.”

“Will she recover?”

“She will.”

“Where is she now?”

La Masque hesitated and seemed uncertain whether or not to reply, Sir
Norman passionately broke in:

“Tell me, madam, for I must know!”

“Then you shall; but, remember, if you get into danger, you must not
blame me.”

“Blame you! No, I think I would hardly do that. Where am I to seek for
her?”

“Two miles from London beyond Newgate,” said the mask. “There stand the
ruins of what was long ago a hunting-lodge, now a crumbling skeleton,
roofless and windowless, and said, by rumor, to be haunted. Perhaps you
have seen or heard of it?”

“I have seen it a hundred times,” broke in Sir Norman. “Surely, you do
not mean to say she is there?”

“Go there, and you will see. Go there to-night, and lose no time--that
is, supposing you can procure a license.”

“I have one already. I have a pass from the Lord Mayor to come and go
from the city when I please.”

“Good! Then you'll go to-night.”

“I will go. I might as well do that as anything else, I suppose; but it
is quite impossible,” said Sir Norman, firmly, not to say obstinately,
“that she can be there.”

“Very well you'll see. You had better go on horseback, if you desire to
be back in time to witness the illumination.”

“I don't particularly desire to see the illumination, as I know of; but
I will ride, nevertheless. What am I to do when I get there?”

“You will enter the ruins, and go on till you discover a spiral
staircase leading to what was once the vaults. The flags of these vaults
are loose from age, and if you should desire to remove any of them, you
will probably not find it an impossibility.”

“Why should I desire to remove them?” asked Sir Norman, who felt
dubious, and disappointed, and inclined to be dogmatical.

“Why, you may see a glimmering of light--hear strange noises; and if
you remove the stones, may possibly see strange sights. As I told you
before, it is rumored to be haunted, which is true enough, though not in
the way they suspect; and so the fools and the common herd stay away.”

“And if I am discovered peeping like a rascally valet, what will be the
consequences?”

“Very unpleasant ones to you; but you need not be discovered if you take
care. Ah! Look there!”

She pointed to the river, and both her companions looked. A barge gayly
painted and gilded, with a light in prow and stern, came gliding up
among less pretentious craft, and stopped at the foot of a flight of
stairs leading to the bridge. It contained four persons--the oarsman,
two cavaliers sitting in the stern, and a lad in the rich livery of a
court-page in the act of springing out. Nothing very wonderful in all
this; and Sir Norman and Ormiston looked at her for an explanation.

“Do you know those two gentlemen?” she asked.

“Certainly,” replied Sir Norman, promptly; “one is the Duke of York, the
other the Earl of Rochester.”

“And that page, to which of them does he belong?”

“The page!” said Sir Norman, with a stare, as he leaned forward to look;
“pray, madam, what has the page to do with it?”

“Look and see!”

The two peers has ascended the stairs, and were already on the bridge.
The page loitered behind, talking, as it seemed, to the waterman.

“He wears the livery of the Earl of Rochester,” said Ormiston, speaking
for the first time, “but I cannot see his face.”

“He will follow presently, and be sure you see it then! Possibly you may
not find it entirely new to you.”

She drew back into the shadow as she spoke; and the two nobles, as they
advanced, talking earnestly, beheld Sir Norman and Ormiston. Both raised
their hats with a look of recognition, and the salute was courteously
returned by the others.

“Good-night, gentlemen,” said Lord Rochester; “a hot evening, is it not?
Have you come here to witness the illumination?”

“Hardly,” said Sir Norman; “we have come for a very different purpose,
my lord.”

“The fires will have one good effect,” said Ormiston laughing; “if they
clear the air and drive away this stifling atmosphere.”

“Pray God they drive away the plague!” said the Duke of York, as he and
his companion passed from view.

The page sprang up the stairs after them, humming as he came, one of his
master's love ditties--songs, saith tradition, savoring anything but
the odor of sanctity. With the warning of La Masque fresh in their mind,
both looked at him earnestly. His gay livery was that of Lord Rochester,
and became his graceful figure well, as he marched along with a jaunty
swagger, one hand on his aide, and the other toying with a beautiful
little spaniel, that frisked in open violation of the Lord Mayor's
orders, commanding all dogs, great and small, to be put to death as
propagators of the pestilence. In passing, the lad turned his face
toward them for a moment--a bright, saucy, handsome face it was--and the
next instant he went round an angle and disappeared. Ormiston suppressed
an oath. Sir Norman stifled a cry of amazement--for both recognized
that beautiful colorless face, those perfect features, and great, black,
lustrous eyes. It was the face of the lady they had saved from the
plague-pit!

“Am I sane or mad?” inquired Sir Norman, looking helplessly about him
for information. “Surely that is she we are in search of.”

“It certainly is!” said Ormiston. “Where are the wonders of this night
to end?”

“Satan and La Masque only know; for they both seem to have united to
drive me mad. Where is she?”

“Where, indeed?” said Ormiston; “where is last year's snow?” And Sir
Norman, looking round at the spot where she had stood a moment before,
found that she, too, had disappeared.





CHAPTER IV. THE STRANGER.

The two friends looked at each other in impressive silence for a moment,
and spake never a word. Not that they were astonished--they were long
past the power of that emotion: and if a cloud had dropped from the
sky at their feet, they would probably have looked at it passively, and
vaguely wonder if the rest would follow. Sir Norman, especially, had
sank into a state of mind that words are faint and feeble to describe.
Ormiston, not being quite so far gone, was the first to open his lips.

“Upon my honor, Sir Norman, this is the most astonishing thing ever I
heard of. That certainly was the face of our half-dead bride! What, in
the name of all the gods, can it mean, I wonder?”

“I have given up wondering,” said Sir Norman, in the same helpless tone.
“And if the earth was to open and swallow London up, I should not be the
least surprised. One thing is certain: the lady we are seeking and that
page are one and the same.”

“And yet La Masque told you she was two miles from the city, in the
haunted ruin; and La Masque most assuredly knows.”

“I have no doubt she is there. I shall not be the least astonished if I
find her in every street between this and Newgate.”

“Really, it is a most singular affair! First you see her in the magic
caldron; then we find her dead; then, when within an ace of being
buried, she comes to life; then we leave her lifeless as a marble
statue, shut up in your room, and fifteen minutes after, she vanishes as
mysteriously as a fairy in a nursery legend. And, lastly, she turns up
in the shape of a court-page, and swaggers along London Bridge at this
hour of the night, chanting a love song. Faith! it would puzzle the
sphinx herself to read this riddle, I've a notion!”

“I, for one, shall never try to read it,” said Sir Norman. “I am about
tired of this labyrinth of mysteries, and shall save time and La Masque
to unravel them at their leisure.”

“Then you mean to give up the pursuit?”

“Not exactly. I love this mysterious beauty too well to do that; and
when next I find her, be it where it may, I shall take care she does not
slip so easily through my fingers.”

“I cannot forget that page,” said Ormiston, musingly. “It is singular
since, he wears the Earl of Rochester's livery, that we have never seen
him before among his followers. Are you quite sure, Sir Norman, that you
have not?”

“Seen him? Don't be absurd, Ormiston! Do you think I could ever forget
such a face as that?”

“It would not be easy, I confess. One does not see such every day. And
yet--and yet--it is most extraordinary!”

“I shall ask Rochester about him the first thing to-morrow; and unless
he is an optical illusion--which I vow I half believe is the case--I
will come at the truth in spite of your demoniac friend, La Masque!”

“Then you do not mean to look for him to-night?”

“Look for him? I might as well look for a needle in a haystack. No! I
have promised La Masque to visit the old ruins, and there I shall go
forthwith. Will you accompany me?”

“I think not. I have a word to say to La Masque, and you and she kept
talking so busily, I had no chance to put it in.”

Sir Norman laughed.

“Besides, I have no doubt it is a word you would not like to utter in
the presence of a third party, even though that third party be
your friend and Pythias, Kingsley. Do you mean to stay here like a
plague-sentinel until she returns?”

“Possibly; or if I get tired I may set out in search of her. When do you
return?”

“The Fates, that seem to make a foot-ball of my best affections, and
kick them as they please, only know. If nothing happens--which, being
interpreted, means, if I am still in the land of the living--I shall
surely be back by daybreak.”

“And I shall be anxious about that time to hear the result of your
night's adventure; so where shall we meet?”

“Why not here? it is as good a place as any.”

“With all my heart. Where do you propose getting a horse?”

“At the King's Arms--but a stones throw from here. Farewell.”

“Good-night, and God speed you!” said Ormiston. And wrapping his cloak
close about him, he leaned against the doorway, and, watching the
dancing lights on the river, prepared to await the return of La Masque.

With his head full of the adventures and misadventures of the night, Sir
Norman walked thoughtfully on until he reached the King's Arms--a low
inn on the bank of the river. To his dismay he found the house shut up,
and bearing the dismal mark and inscription of the pestilence. While
he stood contemplating it in perplexity, a watchman, on guard before
another plague-stricken house, advanced and informed him that the whole
family had perished of the disease, and that the landlord himself, the
last survivor, had been carried off not twenty minutes before to the
plague-pit.

“But,” added the man, seeing Sir Norman's look of annoyance, and being
informed what he wanted, “there are two or three horses around there
in the stable, and you may as well help yourself, for if you don't take
them, somebody else will.”

This philosophic logic struck Sir Norman as being so extremely
reasonable, that without more ado he stepped round to the stables and
selected the best it contained. Before proceeding on his journey, it
occurred to him that, having been handling a plague-patient, it would
be a good thing to get his clothes fumigated; so he stepped into an
apothecary's store for that purpose, and provided himself also with
a bottle of aromatic vinegar. Thus prepared for the worst, Sir Norman
sprang on his horse like a second Don Quixote striding his good steed
Rozinante, and sallied forth in quest of adventures. These, for a short
time, were of rather a dismal character; for, hearing the noise of
a horse's hoofs in the silent streets at that hour of the night, the
people opened their doors as he passed by, thinking it the pest-cart,
and brought forth many a miserable victim of the pestilence. Averting
his head from the revolting spectacles, Sir Norman held the bottle of
vinegar to his nostrils, and rode rapidly till he reached Newgate. There
he was stopped until his bill of health was examined, and that small
manuscript being found all right, he was permitted to pass on in peace.
Everywhere he went, the trail of the serpent was visible over all. Death
and Desolation went hand in hand. Outside as well as inside the gates,
great piles of wood and coal were arranged, waiting only the midnight
hour to be fired. Here, however, no one seemed to be stirring; and no
sound broke the silence but the distant rumble of the death-cart, and
the ringing of the driver's bell. There were lights in some of the
houses, but many of them were dark and deserted, and nearly every one
bore the red cross of the plague.

It was a gloomy scene and hour, and Sir Norman's heart turned sick
within him as he noticed the ruin and devastation the pestilence had
everywhere wrought. And he remembered, with a shudder, the prediction
of Lilly, the astrologer, that the paved streets of London would be like
green fields, and the living be no longer able to bury the dead. Long
before this, he had grown hardened and accustomed to death from its very
frequence; but now, as he looked round him, he almost resolved to ride
on and return no more to London till the plague should have left it.
But then came the thought of his unknown lady-love, and with it the
reflection that he was on his way to find her; and, rousing himself
from his melancholy reverie, he rode on at a brisker pace, heroically
resolved to brave the plague or any other emergency, for her sake. Full
of this laudable and lover-like resolution, he had got on about half
a mile further, when he was suddenly checked in his rapid career by an
exciting, but in no way surprising, little incident.

During the last few yards, Sir Norman had come within sight of another
horseman, riding on at rather a leisurely pace, considering the place
and the hour. Suddenly three other horsemen came galloping down upon
him, and the leader presenting a pistol at his head, requested him in
a stentorial voice for his money or his life. By way of reply, the
stranger instantly produced a pistol of his own, and before the
astonished highwayman could comprehend the possibility of such an act,
discharged it full in his face. With a loud yell the robber reeled and
fell from his saddle, and in a twinkling both his companions fired their
pistols at the traveler, and bore, with a simultaneous cry of rage, down
upon him. Neither of the shots had taken effect, but the two enraged
highwaymen would have made short work of their victim had not Sir
Norman, like a true knight, ridden to the rescue. Drawing his sword,
with one vigorous blow he placed another of the assassins hors de
combat; and, delighted with the idea of a fight to stir his stagnant
blood, was turning (like a second St. George at the Dragon), upon the
other, when that individual, thinking discretion the better part of
valor, instantaneously turned tail and fled. The whole brisk little
episode had not occupied five minutes, and Sir Norman was scarcely aware
the fight had began before it had triumphantly ended.

“Short, sharp, and decisive!” was the stranger's cool criticism, as he
deliberately wiped his blood-stained sword, and placed it in a velvet
scabbard. “Our friends, there, got more than they bargained for, I
fancy. Though, but for you, Sir,” he said, politely raising his hat and
bowing, “I should probably have been ere this in heaven, or--the other
place.”

Sir Norman, deeply edified by the easy sang-froid of the speaker, turned
to take a second look at him. There was very little light; for the night
had grown darker as it wore on, and the few stars that had glimmered
faintly had hid their diminished heads behind the piles of inky clouds.
Still, there was a sort of faint phosphorescent light whitening the
gloom, and by it Sir Norman's keen bright eyes discovered that he wore
a long dark cloak and slouched hat. He discovered something else,
too--that he had seen that hat and cloak, and the man inside of them on
London Bridge, not an hour before. It struck Sir Norman there was a sort
of fatality in their meeting; and his pulses quickened a trifle, as he
thought that he might be speaking to the husband of the lady for whom
he had so suddenly conceived such a rash and inordinate attachment. That
personage meantime having reloaded his pistol, with a self-possession
refreshing to witness, replaced it in his doublet, gathered up the
reins, and, glancing slightly at his companion, spoke again,

“I should thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but thanking people
is so little in my line, that I scarcely know how to set about it.
Perhaps, my dear sir, you will take the will for the deed.”

“An original, this,” thought Sir Norman, “whoever he is.” Then aloud:
“Pray don't trouble yourself about thanks, sir, I should have dome
precisely the same for the highwaymen, had you been three to one over
them.”

“I don't doubt it in the least; nevertheless I feel grateful, for you
have saved my life all the same, and you have never seen me before.”

“There you are mistaken,” said Sir Norman, quietly “I had the pleasure
of seeing you scarce an hour ago.”

“Ah!” said the stranger, in an altered tone, “and where?”

“On London Bridge.”

“I did not see you.”

“Very likely, but I was there none the less.”

“Do you know me?” said the stranger; and Sir Norman could see he was
gazing at him sharply from under the shadow of his slouched hat.

“I have not that honor, but I hope to do so before we part.”

“It was quite dark when you saw me on the bridge--how comes it, then,
that you recollect me so well?”

“I have always been blessed with an excellent memory,” said Sir Norman
carelessly, “and I knew your dress, face, and voice instantly.”

“My voice! Then you heard me speak, probably to the watchman guarding a
plague-stricken house?”

“Exactly! and the subject being a very interesting one, I listened to
all you said.”

“Indeed! and what possible interest could the subject have for you, may
I ask?”

“A deeper one than you think!” said Sir Norman, with a slight tremor in
his voice as he thought of the lady, “the watchman told you the lady you
sought for had been carried away dead, and thrown into the plague-pit!”

“Well,” cried the stranger starting violently, “and was it not true?”

“Only partly. She was carried away in the pest-cart sure enough, but she
was not thrown into the plague-pit!”

“And why?”

“Because, when on reaching that horrible spot, she was found to be
alive!”

“Good Heaven! And what then?”

“Then,” exclaimed Sir Norman, in a tone almost as excited as his own,
“she was brought to the house of a friend, and left alone for a few
minutes, while that friend went in search of a doctor. On returning they
found her--where do you think?”

“Where?”

“Gone!” said Sir Norman emphatically, “spirited away by some mysterious
agency; for she was dying of the plague, and could not possibly stir
hand or foot herself.”

“Dying of the plague, O Leoline!” said the stranger, in a voice full of
pity and horror, while for a moment he covered his face with his hands.

“So her name is Leoline?” said Sir Norman to himself. “I have found
that out, and also that this gentleman, whatever he may be to her, is as
ignorant of her whereabouts as I am myself. He seems in trouble, too. I
wonder if he really happens to be her husband?”

The stranger suddenly lifted his head and favored Sir Norman with a long
and searching look.

“How come you to know all this, Sir Norman Kingsley,” he asked abruptly.

“And how come you to know my name?” demanded Sir Norman, very much
amazed, notwithstanding his assertion that nothing would astonish him
more.

“That is of no consequence! Tell me how you've learned all this?”
 repeated the stranger, in a tone of almost stern authority.

Sir Norman started and stared. That voice! I have had heard it a
thousand times! It had evidently been disguised before; but now, in the
excitement of the moment, the stranger was thrown off his guard, and it
became perfectly familiar. But where had he heard it? For the life of
him, Sir Norman could not tell, yet it was as well known to him as
his own. It had the tone, too, of one far more used to command than
entreaty; and Sir Norman, instead of getting angry, as he felt he ought
to have done, mechanically answered:

“The watchman told you of the two young men who brought her out and laid
her in the dead-cart--I was one of the two.”

“And who was the other?”

“A friend of mine--one Malcolm Ormiston.”

“Ah! I know him! Pardon my abruptness, Sir Norman,” said the stranger,
once more speaking in his assumed suave tone, “but I feel deeply on this
subject, and was excited at the moment. You spoke of her being brought
to the house of a friend--now, who may that friend be, for I was not
aware that she had any?”

“So I judged,” said Sir Norman, rather bitterly, “or she would not have
been left to die alone of the plague. She was brought to my house, sir,
and I am the friend who would have stood by her to the last!”

Sir Norman sat up very straight and haughty on his horse; and had it
been daylight, he would have seen a slight derisive smile pass over the
lips of his companion.

“I have always heard that Sir Norman Kingsley was a chivalrous knight,”
 he said; “but I scarcely dreamed his gallantry would have carried him
so far as to brave death by the pestilence for the sake of an unknown
lady--however beautiful. I wonder you did not carry her to the
pest-house.”

“No doubt! Those who could desert her at such a time would probably be
capable of that or any other baseness!”

“My good friend,” said the stranger, calmly, “your insinuation is not
over-courteous, but I can forgive it, more for the sake of what you've
done for her to-night than for myself.”

Sir Norman's lip curled.

“I'm obliged to you! And now, sir, as you have seen fit to question me
in this free and easy manner, will you pardon me if I take the liberty
of returning the compliment, and ask you a few in return?”

“Certainly; pray proceed, Sir Norman,” said the stranger, blandly; “you
are at liberty to ask as many questions as you please--so am I to answer
them.”

“I answered all yours unhesitatingly, and you owe it to me to do the
same,” said Sir Norman, somewhat haughtily. “In the first place, you
have an advantage of me which I neither understand, nor relish; so,
to place us on equal terms, will you have the goodness to tell me your
name?”

“Most assuredly! My name,” said the stranger, with glib airiness, “is
Count L'Estrange.”

“A name unknown to me,” said Sir Norman, with a piercing look, “and
equally unknown, I believe, at Whitehall. There is a Lord L'Estrange in
London; but you and he are certainly not one and the same.”

“My friend does not believe me,” said the count, almost gayly--“a
circumstance I regret, but cannot help. Is there anything else Sir
Norman wishes to know?”

“If you do not answer my questions truthfully, there is little use in
my asking them,” said Sir Norman, bluntly. “Do you mean to say you are a
foreigner?”

“Sir Norman Kingsley is at perfect liberty to answer that question as he
pleases,” replied the stranger, with most provoking indifference.

Sir Norman's eye flashed, and his hand fell on his sword; but,
reflecting that the count might find it inconvenient to answer any more
questions if he ran him through, he restrained himself and went on.

“Sir, you are impertinent, but that is of no consequence, just now. Who
was that lady--what was her name?”

“Leoline.”

“Was she your wife?”

The stranger paused for a moment, as if reflecting whether she was or
not, and then said, meditatively,

“No--I don't know as she was. On the whole, I am pretty sure she was
not.”

Sir Norman felt as if a ton weight had been suddenly hoisted from the
region of his heart.

“Was she anybody else's wife?”

“I think not. I'm inclined to think that, except myself, she did not
know another man in London.”

“Then why was she dressed as a bride?” inquired Sir Norman, rather
mystified.

“Was she? My poor Leoline!” said the stranger, sadly. “Because-”
 he hesitated, “because--in short, Sir Norman,” said the stranger,
decidedly, “I decline answering any more questions!”

“I shall find out, for all that,” said Sir Norman, “and here I shall bid
you good-night, for this by-path leads to my destination.”

“Good-night,” said the stranger, “and be careful, Sir Norman--remember,
the plague is abroad.”

“And so are highwaymen!” called Sir Norman after him, a little
maliciously; but a careless laugh from the stranger was the only reply
as he galloped away.





CHAPTER V. THE DWARF AND THE RUIN.

The by-path down which Sir Norman rode, led to an inn, “The Golden
Crown,” about a quarter of a mile from the ruin. Not wishing to take
his horse, lest it should lead to discovery, he proposed leaving it here
till his return; and, with this intention, and the strong desire for a
glass of wine--for the heat and his ride made him extremely thirsty--he
dismounted at the door, and consigning the animal to the care of a
hostler, he entered the bar-room. It was not the most inviting place
in the world, this same bar-room--being illy-lighted, dim with
tobacco-smoke, and pervaded by a strong spirituous essence of stronger
drinks than malt or cold water. A number of men were loitering about,
smoking, drinking, and discussing the all-absorbing topic of the plague,
and the fires that might be kindled. There was a moment's pause, as Sir
Norman entered, took a seat, and called for a glass of sack, and then
the conversation went on as before. The landlord hastened to supply his
wants by placing a glass and a bottle of wine before him, and Sir Norman
fell to helping himself, and to ruminating deeply on the events of the
night. Rather melancholy these ruminations were, though to do the young
gentleman justice, sentimental melancholy was not at all in his line;
but then you will please to recollect he was in love, and when people
come to that state, they are no longer to be held responsible either for
their thoughts or actions. It is true his attack had been a rapid one,
but it was no less severe for that; and if any evil-minded critic is
disposed to sneer at the suddenness of his disorder, I have only to say,
that I know from observation, not to speak of experience, that love at
first sight is a lamentable fact, and no myth.

Love is not a plant that requires time to flourish, but is quite capable
of springing up like the gourd of Jonah full grown in a moment. Our
young friend, Sir Norman, had not been aware of the existence of the
object of his affections for a much longer space than two hours and
a half, yet he had already got to such a pitch, that if he did not
speedily find her, he felt he would do something so desperate as to
shake society to its utmost foundations. The very mystery of the affair
spurred him on, and the romantic way in which she had been found, saved,
and disappeared, threw such a halo of interest round her, that he was
inclined to think sometimes she was nothing but a shining vision from
another world. Those dark, splendid eyes; that lovely marblelike face;
those wavy ebon tresses; that exquisitely exquisite figure; yes, he felt
they were all a great deal too perfect for this imperfect and wicked
world. Sir Norman was in a very bad way, beyond doubt, but no worse than
millions of young men before and after him; and he heaved a great many
profound sighs, and drank a great many glasses of sack, and came to the
sorrowful conclusion that Dame Fortune was a malicious jade, inclined to
poke fun at his best affections, and make a shuttlecock of his heart
for the rest of his life. He thought, too, of Count L'Estrange; and the
longer he thought, the more he became convinced that he knew him well,
and had met him often. But where? He racked his brain until, between
love, Leoline, and the count, he got that delicate organ into such a
maze of bewilderment and distraction, that he felt he would be a case
of congestion, shortly, if he did not give it up. That the count's
voice was not the only thing about him assumed, he was positive; and he
mentally called over the muster-roll of his past friends, who spent half
their time at Whitehall, and the other half going through the streets,
making love to the honest citizens' pretty wives and daughters; but
none of them answered to Count L'Estrange. He could scarcely be a
foreigner--he spoke English with too perfect an accent to be that; and
then he knew him, Sir Norman, as if he had been his brother. In short,
there was no use driving himself insane trying to read so unreadable
a riddle; and inwardly consigning the mysterious count to Old Nick, he
swallowed another glass of sack, and quit thinking about him.

So absorbed had Sir Norman been in his own mournful musings, that he
paid no attention whatever to those around him, and had nearly forgotten
their very presence, when one of them, with a loud cry, sprang to
his feet, and then fell writhing to the floor. The others, in dismay,
gathered abut him, but the next instant fell back with a cry of, “He has
the plague!” At that dreaded announcement, half of them scampered off
incontinently; and the other half with the landlord at their head,
lifted the sufferer whose groans and cries were heart-rendering, and
carried him out of the house. Sir Norman, rather dismayed himself, had
risen to his feet, fully aroused from his reverie, and found himself
and another individual sole possessors of the premises. His companion he
could not very well make out; for he was sitting, or rather crouching,
in a remote and shadowy corner, where nothing was clearly visible but
the glare of a pair of fiery eyes. There was a great redundancy of hair,
too, about his head and face, indeed considerable more about the latter
than there seemed any real necessity for, and even with the imperfect
glimpse he caught of him the young man set him down in his own mind as
about as hard-looking a customer as he had ever seen. The fiery eyes
were glaring upon him like those of a tiger, through a jungle of bushy
hair, but their owner spoke never a word, though the other stared back
with compound interest. There they sat, beaming upon each other--one
fiercely, the other curiously, until the re-appearance of the landlord
with a very lugubrious and woebegone countenance. It struck Sir Norman
that it was about time to start for the ruin; and, with an eye to
business, he turned to cross-examine mine host a trifle.

“What have they done with that man?” he asked by way of preface.

“Sent him to the pest-house,” replied the landlord, resting his elbows
on the counter and his chin in his hands, and staring dismally at the
opposite wall. “Ah! Lord 'a' mercy on us! These be dreadful times!”

“Dreadful enough!” said Sir Norman, sighing deeply, as he thought of
his beautiful Leoline, a victim of the merciless pestilence. “Have there
been many deaths here of the distemper?”

“Twenty-five to-day!” groaned the man. “Lord! what will become of us?”

“You seem rather disheartened,” said Sir Norman, pouring out a glass of
wine and handing it to him. “Just drink this, and don't borrow trouble.
They say sack is a sure specific against the plague.”

Mine host drained the bumper, and wiped his mouth, with another hollow
groan.

“If I thought that, sir, I'd not be sober from one week's end to
t'other; but I know well enough I will be in a plague-pit in less than a
week. O Lord! have mercy on us!”

“Amen!” said Sir Norman, impatiently. “If fear has not taken away your
wits, my good sir, will you tell me what old ruin that is I saw a little
above here as I rode up?”

The man started from his trance of terror, and glanced, first at the
fiery eyes in the corner, and then at Sir Norman, in evident trepidation
of the question.

“That ruin, sir? You must be a stranger in this place, surely, or you
would not need to ask that question.”

“Well, suppose I am a stranger? What then?”

“Nothing, sir; only I thought everybody knew everything about that
ruin.”

“But I do not, you see? So fill your glass again, and while you are
drinking it, just tell me what that everything comprises.”

Again the landlord glanced fearfully at the fiery eyes in the corner,
and again hesitated.

“Well!” exclaimed Sir Norman, at once surprised and impatient at his
taciturnity, “Can't you speak man? I want you to tell me all about it.”

“There is nothing to tell, sir,” replied the host, goaded to
desperation. “It is an old, deserted ruin that's been here ever since I
remember; and that's all I know about it.”

While, he spoke, the crouching shape in the corner reared itself
upright, and keeping his fiery eyes still glaring upon Sir Norman,
advanced into the light. Our young knight was in the act of raising his
glass to his lips; but as the apparition approached, he laid it down
again, untasted, and stared at it in the wildest surprise and intensest
curiosity. Truly, it was a singular-looking creature, not to say a
rather startling one. A dwarf of some four feet high, and at least five
feet broad across the shoulders, with immense arms and head--a giant in
everything but height. His immense skull was set on such a trifle of a
neck as to be scarcely worth mentioning, and was garnished by a violent
mat of coarse, black hair, which also overran the territory of his
cheeks and chin, leaving no neutral ground but his two fiery eyes and
a broken nose all twisted awry. On a pair of short, stout legs he wore
immense jack-boots, his Herculean shoulders and chest were adorned with
a leathern doublet, and in the belt round his waist were conspicuously
stuck a pair of pistols and a dagger. Altogether, a more ugly or
sinister gentleman of his inches it would have been hard to find in all
broad England. Stopping deliberately before Sir Norman, he placed a hand
on each hip, and in a deep, guttural voice, addressed him:

“So, sir knight--for such I perceive you are--you are anxious to know
something of that old ruin yonder?”

“Well,” said Sir Norman, so far recovering from his surprise as to be
able to speak, “suppose I am? Have you anything to say against it, my
little friend?”

“Oh, not in the least!” said the dwarf, with a hoarse chuckle. “Only,
instead of wasting your breath asking this good man, who professes such
utter ignorance, you had better apply to me for information.”

Again Sir Norman surveyed the little Hercules from head to foot for a
moment, in silence, as one, nowadays, would an intelligent gorilla.

“You think so--do you? And what may you happen to know about it, my
pretty little friend?”

“O Lord!” exclaimed the landlord, to himself, with a frightened face,
while the dwarf “grinned horribly a ghastly smile” from ear to ear.

“So much, my good sir, that I would strongly advise you not to go near
it, unless you wish to catch something worse than the plague. There have
been others--our worthy host, there, whose teeth, you may perceive, are
chattering in his head, can tell you about those that have tried the
trick, and--”

“Well?” said Sir Norman, curiously.

“And have never returned to tell what they found!” concluded the little
monster, with a diabolical leer. And as the landlord fell, gray and
gasping, back in his seat, he broke out into a loud and hyena-like
laugh.

“My dear little friend,” said Sir Norman, staring at him in displeased
wonder, “don't laugh, if you can help it. You are unprepossessing enough
at best, but when you laugh, you look like the very (a downward gesture)
himself!”

Unheeding this advice, the dwarf broke again into an unearthly
cachinnation, that frightened the landlord nearly into fits, and
seriously discomposed the nervous system even of Sir Norman himself.
Then, grinning like a baboon, and still transfixing our puissant young
knight with the same tiger-like and unpleasant glare, he nodded a
farewell; and in this fashion, grinning, and nodding, and backing, he
got to the door, and concluding the interesting performance with a third
hoarse and hideous laugh, disappeared in the darkness.

For fully ten minutes after he was gone, the young man kept his eyes
blankly fixed on the door, with a vague impression that he was suffering
from an attack of nightmare; for it seemed impossible that anything so
preposterously ugly as that dwarf could exist out of one. A deep groan
from the landlord, however, convinced him that it was no disagreeable
midnight vision, but a brawny reality; and turning to that individual,
he found him gasping, in the last degree of terror, behind the counter.

“Now, who in the name of all the demons out of Hades may that ugly
abortion be?” inquired Sir Norman.

“O Lord! be merciful! sir, it's Caliban; and the only wonder is, he did
not leave you a bleeding corpse at his feet!”

“I should like to see him try it. Perhaps he would have found that is a
game two can play at! Where does he come from and who is he!”

The landlord leaned over the counter, and placed a very pale and
startled face close to Sir Norman's.

“That's just what I wanted to tell you, sir, but I was afraid to speak
before him. I think he lives up in that same old ruin you were inquiring
about--at least, he is often seen hanging around there; but people are
too much afraid of him to ask him any questions. Ah, sir, it's a strange
place, that ruin, and there be strange stories afloat about it,” said
the man, with a portentious shake of the head.

“What are they?” inquired Sir Norman. “I should particularly like to
know.”

“Well, sir, for one thing, some folks say it is haunted, on account of
the queer lights and noises about it, sometimes; but, again, there be
other folks, sir, that say the ghosts are alive, and that he”--nodding
toward the door--“is a sort of ringleader among them.”

“And who are they that cut up such cantrips in the old place, pray?”

“Lord only knows, sir. I'm sure I don't. I never go near it myself; but
there are others who have, and some of them tell of the most beautiful
lady, all in white, with long, black hair, who walks on the battlements
moonlight nights.”

“A beautiful lady, all in white, with long, black hair! Why, that
description applies to Leoline exactly.”

And Sir Norman gave a violent start, and arose to proceed to the place
directly.

“Don't you go near it, sir!” said the host, warningly. “Others have
gone, as he told you, and never come back; for these be dreadful times,
and men do as they please. Between the plague and their wickedness, the
Lord only knows what will become of us!”

“If I should return here for my horse in an hour or two, I suppose I can
get him?” sad Sir Norman, as he turned toward the door.

“It's likely you can, sir, if I'm not dead by that time,” said the
landlord, as he sank down again, groaning dismally, with his chin
between his hands.

The night was now profoundly dark; but Sir Norman knew the road and ruin
well, and, drawing his sword, walked resolutely on. The distance between
it and the ruin was trifling, and in less than ten minutes it loomed
up before him, a mass of deeper black in the blackness. No white vision
floated on the broken battlements this night, as Sir Norman looked
wistfully up at them; but neither was there any ungainly dwarf, with
two-edged sword, guarding the ruined entrance; and Sir Norman passed
unmolested in. He sought the spiral staircase which La Masque had
spoken of, and, passing carefully from one ancient chamber to another,
stumbling over piles of rubbish and stones as he went, he reached it at
last. Descending gingerly its tortuous steepness, he found himself in
the mouldering vaults, and, as he trod them, his ear was greeted by
the sound of faint and far-off music. Proceeding farther, he heard
distinctly, mingled with it, a murmur of voices and laughter, and,
through the chinks in the broken flags, he perceived a few faint rays
of light. Remembering the directions of La Masque, and feeling intensely
curious, he cautiously knelt down, and examined the loose flagstones
until he found one he could raise; he pushed it partly aside, and, lying
flat on the stones, with his face to the aperture, Sir Norman beheld a
most wonderful sight.





CHAPTER VI. LA MASQUE

“Love is like a dizziness,” says the old song. Love is something
else--it is the most selfish feeling in existence. Of course, I don't
allude to the fraternal or the friendly, or any other such nonsensical
old-fashioned trash that artless people still believe in, but to the
real genuine article that Adam felt for Eve when he first saw her, and
which all who read this--above the innocent and unsusceptible age of
twelve--have experienced. And the fancy and the reality are so much
alike, that they amount to about the same thing. The former perhaps,
may be a little short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation
while it lasts as its more enduring sister. Love is said to be
blind, and it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its
victims--an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid in the
slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or waking, but one
object, and that alone.

I don't know whether these were Mr. Malcolm or Ormiston's thoughts, as
he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms across his chest to
await the shining of his day-star. In fact, I am pretty sure they were
not: young gentlemen, as a general thing, not being any more given to
profound moralizing in the reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles
II., than they are at the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was
his bosom friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of sight, than
he forgot him as totally as if he had never known that distinguished
individual. His many and deep afflictions, his love, his anguish, and
his provocations; his beautiful, tantalizing, and mysterious lady-love;
his errand and its probable consequences, all were forgotten; and
Ormiston thought of nothing or nobody in the world but himself and La
Masque. La Masque! La Masque! that was the theme on which his thoughts
rang, with wild variations of alternate hope and fear, like every other
lover since the world began, and love was first an institution. “As it
was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,” truly, truly it is
an odd and wonderful thing. And you and I may thank our stars, dear
readers, that we are a great deal too sensible to wear our hearts in
our sleeves for such a bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was
longer-lived than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and
had it badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did
she conceal her face--would she ever disclose it--would she listen to
him--would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and Common Sense
(or what little of that useful commodity he had left) answered--probably
because she was eccentric--possibly she would disclose it for the same
reason; that he had only to try and make her listen; and as to her
loving him, why, Common Sense owned he had her there.

I can't say whether the adage! “Faint heart never won fair lady!” was
extant in his time; but the spirit of it certainly was, and Ormiston
determined to prove it. He wanted to see La Masque, and try his fate
once again; and see her he would, if he had to stay there as a sort of
ornamental prop to the house for a week. He knew he might as well look
for a needle in a haystack as his whimsical beloved through the streets
of London--dismal and dark now as the streets of Luxor and Tadmor in
Egypt; and he wisely resolved to spare himself and his Spanish leathers
boots the trial of a one-handed game of “hide-and-go-to-seek.” Wisdom,
like Virtue, is its own reward; and scarcely had he come to this
laudable conclusion, when, by the feeble glimmer of the house-lamps, he
saw a figure that made his heart bound, flitting through the night-gloom
toward him. He would have known that figure on the sands of Sahara, in
an Indian jungle, or an American forest--a tall, slight, supple figure,
bending and springing like a bow of steel, queenly and regal as that of
a young empress. It was draped in a long cloak reaching to the ground,
in color as black as the night, and clasped by a jewel whose glittering
flash, he saw even there; a velvet hood of the same color covered the
stately head; and the mask--the tiresome, inevitable mask covered the
beautiful--he was positive it was beautiful--face. He had seen her a
score of times in that very dress, flitting like a dark, graceful ghost
through the city streets, and the sight sent his heart plunging against
his side like an inward sledge-hammer. Would one pulse in her heart stir
ever so faintly at sight of him? Just as he asked himself the question,
and was stepping forward to meet her, feeling very like the country
swain in love--“hot and dry like, with a pain in his side like”--he
suddenly stopped. Another figure came forth from the shadow of an
opposite house, and softly pronounced her name. It was a short figure--a
woman's figure. He could not see the face, and that was an immense
relief to him, and prevented his having jealousy added to his other
pains and tribulations. La Masque paused as well as he, and her soft
voice softly asked:

“Who calls?”

“It is I, madame--Prudence.”

“Ah! I am glad to meet you. I have been searching the city through for
you. Where have you been?”

“Madame, I was so frightened that I don't know where I fled to, and
I could scarcely make up my mind to come back at all. I did feel
dreadfully sorry for her, poor thing! but you know, Madame Masque, I
could do nothing for her, and I should not have come back, only I was
afraid of you.”

“You did wrong, Prudence,” said La Masque, sternly, or at least as
sternly as so sweet a voice could speak; “you did very wrong to leave
her in such a way. You should have come to me at once, and told me all.”

“But, madame, I was so frightened!”

“Bah! You are nothing but a coward. Come into this doorway, and tell me
all about it.”

Ormiston drew back as the twain approached, and entered the deep portals
of La Masque's own doorway. He could see them both by the aforesaid
faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's companion was a
wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the peace of mind of the most
jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps it was not just the thing to hover
aloof and listen; but he could not for the life of him help it; and
stand and listen he accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal
conversation might throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious
to see through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear
the better, he would have had the operation then and there performed.
There was a moment's silence after the two entered the portal, during
which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and commanding, motionless as a
marble column; and the little withered old specimen of humanity beside
her stood gazing up at her with something between fear and fascination.

“Do you know what has become of your charge, Prudence?” asked the low,
vibrating voice of La Masque, at last.

“How could I, madame? You know I fled from the house, and I dared not go
back. Perhaps she is there still.”

“Perhaps she is not? Do you suppose that sharp shriek of yours was
unheard? No; she was found; and what do you suppose has become of her?”

The old woman looked up, and seemed to read in the dark, stern figure,
and the deep solemn voice, the fatal truth. She wrung her hands with a
sort of cry.

“Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and buried her
in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress.”

“If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of
running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened,” said La
Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.

“Madame,” sobbed the old woman, who was crying, “she was dying of the
plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her in spite of
me.”

“She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive as you
or I at this moment.”

“Madame, I left her dead!” said the old woman positively.

“Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in that
state she was found and carried to the plague-pit.”

The old woman stood silent for a moment, with a face of intense horror,
and then she clasped both hands with a wild cry.

“O my God! And they buried her alive--buried her alive in that dreadful
plague-pit!”

La Masque, leaning against a pillar, stood unmoved; and her voice, when
she spoke, was as coldly sweet as modern ice-cream.

“Not exactly. She was not buried at all, as I happen to know. But when
did you discover that she had the plague, and how could she possibly
have caught it?”

“That I do not know, madam. She seemed well enough all day, though not
in such high spirits as a bride should be. Toward evening she complained
of a headache and a feeling of faintness; but I thought nothing of it,
and helped her to dress for the bridal. Before it was over, the headache
and faintness grew worse, and I gave her wine, and still suspected
nothing. The last time I came in, she had grown so much worse, that
notwithstanding her wedding dress, she had lain down on her bed, looking
for all the world like a ghost, and told me she had the most dreadful
burning pain in her chest. Then, madame, the horrid truth struck me--I
tore down her dress, and there, sure enough, was the awful mark of
the distemper. `You have the plague!' I shrieked; and then I fled down
stairs and out of the house, like one crazy. O madame, madame! I shall
never forget it--it was terrible! I shall never forget it! Poor, poor
child; and the count does not know a word of it!”

La Masque laughed--a sweet, clear, deriding laugh, “So the count does
not know it, Prudence? Poor man! he will be in despair when he finds it
out, won't he? Such an ardent and devoted lover as he was you know!”

Prudence looked up a little puzzled.

“Yes, madame, I think so. He seemed very fond of her; a great deal
fonder than she ever was of him. The fact is, madame,” said Prudence,
lowering her voice to a confidential stage whisper, “she never seemed
fond of him at all, and wouldn't have been married, I think, if she
could have helped it.”

“Could have helped it? What do you mean, Prudence? Nobody made her, did
they?”

Prudence fidgeted, and looked rather uneasy.

“Why, madame, she was not exactly forced, perhaps; but you know--you
know you told me--”

“Well?” said La Masque, coldly.

“To do what I could,” cried Prudence, in a sort of desperation; “and I
did it, madame, and harassed her about it night and day. And then the
count was there, too, coaxing and entreating; and he was handsome and
had such ways with him that no woman could resist, much less one so
little used to gentlemen as Leoline. And so, Madame Masque, we kept at
her till we got her to consent to it at last; but in her secret heart,
I know she did not want to be married--at least to the count,” said
Prudence, on serious afterthought.

“Well, well; that has nothing to do with it. The question is, where is
she to be found?”

“Found!” echoed Prudence; “has she then been lost?”

“Of coarse she has, you old simpleton! How could she help it, and she
dead, with no one to look after her?” said La Masque, with something
like a half laugh. “She was carried to the plague-pit in her
bridal-robes, jewels and lace; and, when about to be thrown in, was
discovered, like Moses is the bulrushes, to be all alive.”

“Well,” whispered Prudence, breathlessly.

“Well, O most courageous of guardians! she was carried to a certain
house, and left to her own devices, while her gallant rescuer went for a
doctor; and when they returned she was missing. Our pretty Leoline seems
to have a strong fancy for getting lost!”

There was a pause, during which Prudence looked at her with a face full
of mingled fear and curiosity. At last:

“Madame, how do you know all this? Were you there?”

“No. Not I, indeed! What would take me there?”

“Then how do you happen to know everything about it?”

La Masque laughed.

“A little bird told me, Prudence! Have you returned to resume your old
duties?”

“Madame, I dare not go into that house again. I am afraid of taking the
plague.”

“Prudence, you are a perfect idiot! Are you not liable to take the
plague in the remotest quarter of this plague-infested city? And even
if you do take it, what odds? You have only a few years to live, at the
most, and what matter whether you die now or at the end of a year or
two?”

“What matter?” repeated Prudence, in a high key of indignant amazement.
“It may make no matter to you, Madame Masque, but it makes a great deal
to me; I can tell you; and into that infected house I'll not put one
foot.”

“Just as you please, only in that case there is no need for further
talk, so allow me to bid you good-night!”

“But, madame, what of Leoline? Do stop one moment and tell me of her.”

“What have I to tell? I have told you all I know. If you want to find
her, you must search in the city or in the pest-house!”

Prudence shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.

“O, my poor darling! so good and so beautiful. Heaven might surely have
spared her! Are you going to do nothing farther about it?”

“What can I do? I have searched for her and have not found her, and what
else remains?”

“Madame, you know everything--surely, surely you know where my poor
little nursling is, among the rest.”

Again La Masque laughed--another of her low, sweet, derisive laughs.

“No such thing, Prudence. If I did, I should have her here in a
twinkling, depend upon--it. However, it all comes to the same thing in
the end. She is probably dead by this time, and would have to be buried
in the plague-pit, anyhow. If you have nothing further to say, Prudence,
you had better bid me good-night, and let me go.”

“Good-night, madame!” said Prudence, with a sort of groan, as she
wrapped her cloak closely around her, and turned to go.

La Masque stood for a moment looking after her, and then placed a key
in the lock of the door. But there is many a slip--she was not fated to
enter as soon as she thought; for just at that moment a new step sounded
beside her, a new voice pronounced her name, and looking around, she
beheld Ormiston. With what feelings that young person had listened
to the neat and appropriate dialogue I have just had the pleasure of
immortalizing, may be--to use a phrase you may have heard before, once
or twice--better imagined than described. He knew very well who Leoline
was, and how she had been saved from the plague-pit; but where in the
world had La Masque found it out. Lost in a maze of wonder, and inclined
to doubt the evidence of his own ears, he had stood perfectly still,
until his ladylove had so coolly dismissed her company, and then rousing
himself just in time, he had come forward and accosted her. La Masque
turned round, regarded him in silence for a moment, and when she spoke,
her voice had an accent of mingled surprise and displeasure.

“You, Mr. Ormiston! How many more times am I to have the pleasure of
seeing you again to-night?”

“Pardon, madame; it is the last time. But you must hear me now.”

“Must I? Very well, then; if I must, you had better begin at once, for
the night-air is said to be unhealthy, and as good people are scarce, I
want to take care of myself.”

“In that case, perhaps you had better let me enter, too. I hate to talk
on the street, for every wall has ears.”

“I am aware of that. When I was talking to my old friend, Prudence, two
minutes ago, I saw a tall shape that I have reason to know, since it
haunts me, like my own shadow, standing there and paying deed attention.
I hope you found our conversation interesting, Mr. Ormiston!”

“Madame!” began Ormiston, turning crimson.

“Oh, don't blush; there is quite light enough from yonder lamp to show
that. Besides,” added the lady, easily, “I don't know as I had any
objection; you are interested in Leoline, and must feel curious to know
something about her.”

“Madame, what must you think of me? I have acted unpardonably.”

“Oh, I know all that. There is no need to apologize, and I don't think
any the worse of you for it. Will you come to business, Mr. Ormiston?
I think I told you I wanted to go in. What may you want of me at this
dismal hour?”

“O madame, need you ask! Does not your own heart tell you?”

“I am not aware that it does! And to tell you the truth, Mr. Ormiston,
I don't know that I even have a heart! I am afraid I must trouble you to
put it in words.”

“Then, madame, I love you!”

“Is that all? If my memory serves me, you have told me that little fact
several times before. Is there anything else tormenting you, or may I go
in?”

Ormiston groaned out an oath between his teeth, and La Masque raised one
jeweled, snowy taper finger, reprovingly.

“Don't Mr. Ormiston--it's naughty, you know! May I go in?”

“Madame, you are enough to drive a man mad. Is the love I bear you
worthy of nothing but mockery!”

“No, Mr. Ormiston, it is not; that is, supposing you really love me,
which you don't.”

“Madame!”

“Oh, you needn't flash and look indignant; it is quite true! Don't be
absurd, Mr. Ormiston. How is it possible for you to love one you have
never seen?”

“I have seen you. Do you think I am blind?” he demanded, indignantly.

“My face, I mean. I don't consider that you can see a person without
looking in her face. Now you have never looked in mine, and how do you
know I have any face at all?”

“Madame, you mock me.”

“Not at all. How are you to know what is behind this mask?”

“I feel it, and that is better; and I love you all the same.”

“Mr. Ormiston, how do you know but I am ugly.”

“Madame, I do not believe you are; you are all too perfect not to have a
perfect face; and even were it otherwise, I still love you!”

She broke into a laugh--one of her low, short, deriding laughs.

“You do! O man, how wise thou art! I tell you, if I took off this mask,
the sight would curdle the very blood in your veins with horror--would
freeze the lifeblood in your heart. I tell you!” she passionately cried,
“there are sights too horrible for human beings to look on and live, and
this--this is one of them!”

He started back, and stared at her aghast.

“You think me mad,” she said, in a less fierce tone, “but I am not; and
I repeat it, Mr. Ormiston, the sight of what this mask conceals would
blast you. Go now, for Heaven's sake, and leave me in peace, to drag out
the rest of my miserable life; and if ever you think of me, let it be to
pray that it might speedily end. You have forced me to say this: so now
be content. Be merciful, and go!”

She made a desperate gesture, and turned to leave him, but he caught her
hand and held her fast.

“Never!” he cried, fiercely. “Say what you will! let that mask hide what
it may! I will never leave you till life leaves me!”

“Man, you are mad! Release my hand and let me go!”

“Madame, hear me. There is but one way to prove my love, and my sanity,
and that is--”

“Well?” she said, almost touched by his earnestness.

“Raise your mask and try me! Show me your face and see if I do not love
you still!”

“Truly I know how much love you will have for me when it is revealed. Do
you know that no one has looked in my face for the last eight years.”

He stood and gazed at her in wonder.

“It is so, Mr. Ormiston; and in my heart I have vowed a vow to plunge
headlong into the most loathsome plague-pit in London, rather than ever
raise it again. My friend, be satisfied. Go and leave me; go and forget
me.”

“I can do neither until I have ceased to forget every thing earthly.
Madame, I implore you, hear me!”

“Mr. Ormiston, I tell you, you but court your own doom. No one can look
on me and live!”

“I will risk it,” he said with an incredulous smile. “Only promise to
show me your face.”

“Be it so then!” she cried almost fiercely. “I promise, and be the
consequences on your own head.”

His whole face flushed with joy.

“I accept them. And when is that happy time to come?”

“Who knows! What must be done, had best be done quickly; but I tell thee
it were safer to play with the lightning's chain than tamper with what
thou art about to do.”

“I take the risk! Will you raise your mask now?”

“No, no--I cannot! But yet, I may before the sun rises. My face”--with
bitter scorn--“shows better by darkness than by daylight. Will you be
out to see, the grand illumination.”

“Most certainly.”

“Then meet me here an hour after midnight, and the face so long hidden
shall be revealed. But, once again, on the threshold of doom, I entreat
you to pause.”

“There is no such word for me!” he fiercely and exultingly cried. “I
have your promise, and I shall hold you to it! And, madame, if, at last,
you discover my love is changeless as fate itself, then--then may I not
dare to hope for a return?”

“Yes; then you may hope,” she said, with cold mockery. “If your love
survives the sight, it will be mighty, indeed, and well worthy a
return.”

“And you will return it?”

“I will.”

“You will be my wife?”

“With all my heart!”

“My darling!” he cried, rapturously--“for you are mine already--how can
I ever thank you for this? If a whole lifetime devoted and consecrated
to your happiness can repay you, it shall be yours!”

During this rhapsody, her hand had been on the handle of the door. Now
she turned it.

“Good-night, Mr. Ormiston,” she said, and vanished.





CHAPTER VII. THE EARL'S BARGE.

Shocks of joy, they tell me, seldom kill. Of my own knowledge I cannot
say, for I have had precious little experience of such shocks in my
lifetime, Heaven knows; but in the present instance, I can safely aver,
they had no such dismal effect on Ormiston. Nothing earthly could have
given that young gentleman a greater shock of joy than the knowledge he
was to behold the long hidden face of his idol. That that face was ugly,
he did not for an instant believe, or, at least, it never would be ugly
to him. With a form so perfect--a form a sylph might have envied--a
voice sweeter than the Singing Fountain of Arabia, hands and feet the
most perfectly beautiful the sun ever shone on, it was simply a moral
and physical impossibility that they could be joined to a repulsive
face. There was a remote possibility that it was a little less exquisite
than those ravishing items, and that her morbid fancy made her imagine
it homely, compared with them, but he knew he never would share in that
opinion. It was the reasoning of love, rather than logic; for when
love glides smiling in at the door, reason stalks gravely, not to say
sulkily, out of the window, and, standing afar off, eyes disdainfully
the didos and antics of her late tenement. There was very little reason,
therefore, in Ormiston's head and heart, but a great deal of something
sweeter, joy--joy that thrilled and vibrated through every nerve within
him. Leaning against the portal, in an absurd delirium of delight--for
it takes but a trifle to jerk those lovers from the slimiest depths of
the Slough of Despond to the topmost peak of the mountain of ecstasy--he
uncovered his head that the night-air might cool its feverish
throbbings. But the night-air was as hot as his heart; and, almost
suffocated by the sultry closeness, he was about to start for a plunge
in the river, when the sound of coming footsteps and voices arrested
him. He had met with so many odd ad ventures to-night that he stopped
now to see who was coming; for on every hand all was silent and
forsaken.

Footsteps and voices came closer; two figures took shape in the gloom,
and emerged from the darkness into the glimmering lamp light. He
recognised them both. One was the Earl of Rochester; the other, his
dark-eyed, handsome page--that strange page with the face of the lost
lady! The earl was chatting familiarly, and laughing obstreperously at
something or other, while the boy merely wore a languid smile, as if
anything further in that line were quite beneath his dignity.

“Silence and solitude,” said the earl, with a careless glance around,
“I protest, Hubert, this night seems endless. How long is it till
midnight?”

“An hour and a half at least, I should fancy,” answered the boy, with a
strong foreign accent. “I know it struck ten as we passed St. Paul's.”

“This grand bonfire of our most worshipful Lord Mayor will be a sight
worth seeing,” remarked the earl. “When all these piles are lighted, the
city will be one sea of fire.”

“A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold in
another world,” said the page, with a French shrug. “I have heard
Lilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire, like a second
Sodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night.”

“Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place to
view the conflagration.”

“The river will do almost as well, my lord.”

“We will have a chance of knowing that presently,” said the earl, as he
and his page descended to the river, where the little gilded barge lay
moored, and the boatman waiting.

As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched thoughtfully
after them. The face and figure were that of the lady, but the voice
was different; both were clear and musical enough, but she spoke English
with the purest accent, while his was the voice of a foreigner. It most
have been one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimes
see among perfect strangers, but the resemblance in this ease was
something wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself and his
own fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and his
plague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he could possibly
be about just then, or what he had discovered in the old ruin. Suddenly
he was aroused; a moment before, the silence had been almost oppressive
but now on the wings of the night, there came a shout. A tumult of
voices and footsteps were approaching.

“Stop her! Stop her!” was cried by many voices; and the next instant a
fleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and plunged head foremost
into she river.

A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair of
deepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms. Only for
an instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his very heart stood
still. “Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the plague!” shouted the
crowd, preying panting on; but they came too late; the white vision had
gone down into the black, sluggish river, and disappeared.

“Who is it? What is it? Where is it?” cried two or three watchmen,
brandishing their halberds, and rushing up; and the crowd--a small mob of
a dozen or so--answered all at once: “She is delirious with the plague;
she was running through the streets; we gave chase, but she out-stepped
us, and is now at the bottom of the Thames.”

Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to the
waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and many
eyes within them were turned in the direction whence she had gone down.
Soon she reappeared on the dark surface--something whiter than snow,
whiter than death; shining like silver, shone the glittering dress and
marble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston
stood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing
vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was
forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over the
edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted her
in. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, the
batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited face
toward the Earl of Rochester.

“I know that lady, my lord! She is a friend of mine, and you must give
her to me!”

“Is it you, Ormiston? Why what brings you here alone on the river, at
this hour?”

“I have come for her,” said Ormiston, pressing over to lift the lady.
“May I beg you to assist me, my lord, in transferring her to my boat?”

“You must wait till I see her first,” said Rochester, partly raising her
head, and holding a lamp close to her face, “as I have picked her out, I
think I deserve it. Heavens! what an extraordinary likeness!”

The earl had glanced at the lady, then at his page, again at the lady,
and lastly at Ormiston, his handsome countenance full of the most
unmitigated wonder. “To whom?” asked Ormiston, who had very little need
to inquire.

“To Hubert, yonder. Why, don't you see it yourself? She might be his
twin-sister!”

“She might be, but as she is not, you will have the goodness to let me
take charge of her. She has escaped from her friends, and I must bring
her back to them.”

He half lifted her as he spoke; and the boatman, glad enough to get rid
of one sick of the plague, helped her into the batteau. The lady was
not insensible, as might be supposed, after her cold bath, but extremely
wide-awake, and gazing around her with her great, black, shining eyes.
But she made no resistance; either she was too faint or frightened
for that, and suffered herself to be hoisted about, “passive to all
changes.” Ormiston spread his cloak in the stern of the boat, and
laid her tenderly upon it, and though the beautiful, wistful eyes were
solemnly and unwinkingly fixed on his face, the pale, sweet lips parted
not--uttered never a word. The wet bridal robes were drenched and
dripping about her, the long dark hair hung in saturated masses over her
neck and arms, and contrasted vividly with a face, Ormiston thought at
once, the whitest, most beautiful, and most stonelike he had ever seen.

“Thank you, my man; thank you, my lord,” said Ormiston, preparing to
push off.

Rochester, who had been leaning from the barge, gazing in mingled
curiosity, wonder, and admiration at the lovely face, turned now to her
champion.

“Who is she, Ormiston?” he said, persuasively.

But Ormiston only laughed, and rowed energetically for the shore. The
crowd was still lingering; and half a dozen hands were extended to draw
the boat up to the landing. He lifted the light form in his arms and
bore it from the boat; but before he could proceed farther with his
armful of beauty, a faint but imperious voice spoke: “Please put me
down. I am not a baby, and can walk myself.”

Ormiston was so surprised, or rather dismayed, by this unexpected
address, that he complied at once, and placed her on her own pretty
feet. But the young lady's sense of propriety was a good deal stronger
than her physical powers; and she swayed and tottered, and had to cling
to her unknown friend for support.

“You are scarcely strong enough, I am afraid, dear lady,” he said,
kindly. “You had better let me carry you. I assure you I am quite equal
to it, or even a more weighty burden, if necessity required.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the faint voice, faintly; “but I would rather
walk. Where are you taking me to?”

“To your own house, if you wish--it is quite close at hand.”

“Yes. Yes. Let us go there! Prudence is there, and she will take care of
me.”.

“Will she?” said Ormiston, doubtfully. “I hope you do not suffer much
pain!”

“I do not suffer at all,” she said, wearily; “only I am so tired. Oh, I
wish I were home!”

Ormiston half led, half lifted her up the stairs.

“You are almost there, dear lady--see, it is close at hand!”

She half lifted her languid eyes, but did not speak. Leaning panting on
his arm, he drew her gently on until they reached her door. It was still
unfastened. Prudence had kept her word, and not gone near it; and he
opened it, and helped her in.

“Where now?” he asked.

“Up stairs,” she said, feebly. “I want to go to my own room.”

Ormiston knew where that was, and assisted her there as tenderly as he
could have done La Masque herself. He paused on the threshold; for the
room was dark.

“There is a lamp and a tinder-box on the mantel,” said the faint, sweet
voice, “if you will only please to find them.”

Ormiston crowed the room--fortunately he knew the latitude of the place
--and moving his hand with gingerly precaution along the mantel-shelf,
lest he should upset any of the gimcracks thereon, soon obtained the
articles named, and struck a light. The lady was leaning wearily against
the door-post, but now she came forward, and dropped exhausted into the
downy pillows of a lounge.

“Is there anything I can do for you, madame?” began Ormiston, with as
solicitous an air as though he had been her father. “A glass of wine
would be of use to you, I think, and then, if you wish, I will go for a
doctor.”

“You are very kind. You will find wine and glasses in the room opposite
this, and I feel so faint that I think you had better bring me some.”

Ormiston moved across the passage, like the good, obedient young man
that he was, filled a glass of Burgundy, and as he was returning with
it, was startled by a cry from the lady that nearly made him drop and
shiver it on the floor.

“What under heaven has come to her now?” he thought, hastening in,
wondering how she could possibly have come to grief since he left her.

She was sitting upright on the sofa, her dress palled down off her
shoulder where the plague-spot had been, and which, to his amazement, he
saw now pure and stainless, and free from every loathsome trace.

“You are cured of the plague!” was all he could say.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed, fervently clasping her hands. “But oh! how
can it have happened? It must be a miracle!”

“No, it was your plunge into the river; I have heard of one or two such
cases before, and if ever I take it,” said Ormiston, half laughing, half
shuddering, “my first rush shall be for old Father Thames. Here, drink
this, I am certain it will complete the cure.”

The girl--she was nothing but a girl--drank it off and sat upright like
one inspired with new life. As she set down the glass, she lifted her
dark, solemn, beautiful eyes to his face with a long, searching gaze.

“What is your name?” she simply asked.

“Ormiston, madame,” he said, bowing low.

“You have saved my life, have you not?”

“It was the Earl of Rochester who reserved you from the river; but I
would have done it a moment later.”

“I do not mean that. I mean”--with a slight shudder--“are you not one of
those I saw at the plague-pit? Oh! that dreadful, dreadful plague-pit!”
 she cried, covering her face with her hands.

“Yes. I am one of those.”

“And who was the other?”

“My friend, Sir Norman Kingsley.

“Sir Norman Kingsley?” she softly repeated, with a sort of recognition
in her voice and eyes, while a faint roseate glow rose softly over
her face and neck. “Ah! I thought--was it to his house or yours I was
brought?”

“To his,” replied Ormiston, looking at her curiously; for he had seen
that rosy glow, and was extremely puzzled thereby; “from whence, allow
me to add, you took your departure rather unceremoniously.”

“Did I?” she said, in a bewildered sort of way. “It is all like a dream
to me. I remember Prudence screaming, and telling me I had the plague,
and the unutterable horror that filled me when I heard it; and then the
next thing I recollect is, being at the plague-pit, and seeing your face
and his bending over me. All the horror came back with that awakening,
and between it and anguish of the plague-sore I think I fainted again.”
 (Ormiston nodded sagaciously), “and when I next recovered I was alone in
a strange room, and in bed. I noticed that, though I think I must have
been delirious. And then, half-mad with agony, I got out to the street,
somehow and ran, and ran, and ran, until the people saw and followed me
here. I suppose I had some idea of reaching home when I came here; but
the crowd pressed so close behind, and I felt though all my delirium,
that they would bring me to the pest-house if they caught me, and
drowning seemed to me preferable to that. So I was in the river before
I knew it--and you know the rest as well as I do. But I owe you my life,
Mr. Ormiston--owe it to you and another; and I thank you both with all
my heart.”

“Madame, you are too grateful; and I don't know as we have done anything
much to deserve it.”

“You have saved my life; and though you may think that a valueless
trifle, not worth speaking of, I assure you I view it in a very
different light,” she said, with a half smile.

“Lady, your life is invaluable; but as to our saving it, why, you would
not have us throw you alive into the plague-pit, would you?”

“It would have been rather barbarous, I confess, but there are few who
would risk infection for the sake of a mere stranger. Instead of doing
as you did, you might have sent me to the pest-house, you know.”

“Oh, as to that, all your gratitude is due to Sir Norman. He managed the
whole affair, and what is more, fell--but I will leave that for himself
to disclose. Meantime, may I ask the name of the lady I have been so
fortunate as to serve!”

“Undoubtedly, sir--my name is Leoline.”

“Leoline is only half a name.”

“Then I am so unfortunate an only to possess half a name, for I never
had any other.”

Ormiston opened his eyes very wide indeed.

“No other! you must have had a father some time in your life; most
people have,” said the young gentleman, reflectively.

She shook her head a little sadly.

“I never had, that I know of, either father or mother, or any one but
Prudence. And by the way,” she said, half starting up, “the first thing
to be done is, to see about this same Prudence. She must be somewhere in
the house.”

“Prudence is nowhere in the house,” said Ormiston, quietly; “and will
not be, she says, far a month to come. She is afraid of the plague.”

“Is she?” said Leoline, fixing her eyes on him with a powerful glance.
“How do you know that?”

“I heard her say so not half an hour ago, to a lady a few doors distant.
Perhaps you know her--La Masque.”

“That singular being! I don't know her; but I have seen her often. Why
was Prudence talking of me to her, I wonder?”

“That I do not know; but talking of you the was, and she said she
was coming back here no more. Perhaps you will be afraid to stay here
alone?”

“Oh no, I am used to being alone,” she said, with a little sigh, “but
where”--hesitating and blushing vividly, “where is--I mean, I should
like to thank sir Norman Kingsley.”

Ormiston saw the blush and the eyes that dropped, and it puzzled him
again beyond measure.

“Do you know Sir Norman Kingsley?” he suspiciously asked.

“By sight I know many of the nobles of the court,” she answered
evasively, and without looking up: “they pass here often, and Prudence
knows them all; and so I have learned to distinguish them by name and
sight, your friend among the rest.”

“And you would like to see my friend?” he said, with malicious emphasis.

“I would like to thank him,” retorted the lady, with some asperity:
“you have told me how much I owe him, and it strikes me the desire is
somewhat natural.”

“Without doubt it is, and it will save Sir Norman much fruitless labor;
for even now he is in search of you, and will neither rest nor sleep
until he finds you.”

“In search of me!” she said softly, and with that rosy glow again
illumining her beautiful face; “he is indeed kind, and I am most anxious
to thank him.”

“I will bring him here in two hours, then,” said Ormiston, with energy;
“and though the hour may be a little unseasonable, I hope you will
not object to it; for if you do, he will certainly not survive until
morning.”

She gayly laughed, but her cheek was scarlet.

“Rather than that, Mr. Ormiston, I will even see him tonight. You will
find me here when you come.”

“You will not run away again, will you?” said Ormiston, looking at her
doubtfully. “Excuse me; but you have a trick of doing that, you know.”

Again she laughed merrily.

“I think you may safely trust me this time. Are you going?”

By way of reply, Ormiston took his hat and started for the door. There
he paused, with his hand upon it.

“How long have you known Sir Norman Kingsley?” was his careless, artful
question.

But Leoline, tapping one little foot on the floor, and looking down at
it with hot cheeks and humid ayes, answered not a word.





CHAPTER VIII. THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.

When Sir Norman Kingsley entered the ancient ruin, his head was full of
Leoline--when he knelt down to look through the aperture in the flagged
floor, head and heart were full of her still. But the moment his eyes
fell on the scene beneath, everything fled far from his thoughts,
Leoline among the rest; and nothing remained but a profound and
absorbing feeling of intensest amaze.

Right below him he beheld an immense room, of which the flag he had
raised seemed to form part of the ceiling, in a remote corner. Evidently
it was one of a range of lower vaults, and as he was at least fourteen
feet above it, and his corner somewhat in shadow, there was little
danger of his being seen. So, leaning far down to look at his leisure,
he took the goods the gods provided him, and stared to his heart's
content.

Sir Norman had seen some queer sights during the four-and-twenty years
he had spent in this queer world, but never anything quite equal to
this. The apartment below, though so exceedingly large, was lighted with
the brilliance of noon-day; and every object it contained; from one end
to the other, was distinctly revealed. The floor, from glimpses he
had of it in obscure corners, was of stone; but from end to end it was
covered with richest rugs and mats, and squares of velvet of as many
colors as Joseph's coat. The walls were hung with splendid tapestry,
gorgeous in silk and coloring, representing the wars of Troy, the
exploits of Coeur de Lion among the Saracens, the death of Hercules, all
on one side; and on the other, a more modern representation, the Field
of the Cloth of Gold. The illumination proceeded from a range of wax
tapers in silver candelabra, that encircled the whole room. The air was
redolent of perfumes, and filled with strains of softest and sweetest
music from unseen hands. At one extremity of the room was a huge door
of glass and gilding; and opposite it, at the other extremity, was
a glittering throne. It stood on a raised dais, covered with crimson
velvet, reached by two or three steps carpeted with the same; the throne
was as magnificent as gold, and satin, and ornamentation could make
it. A great velvet canopy of the same deep, rich color, cut in antique
points, and heavily hung with gold fringe, was above the seat of honor.
Beside it, to the right, but a little lower down, was a similar throne,
somewhat less superb, and minus a canopy. From the door to the throne
was a long strip of crimson velvet, edged and embroidered with gold, and
arranged in a sweeping semi-circle, on either side, were a row of great
carved, gilded, and cushioned chairs, brilliant, too, with crimson and
gold, and each for every-day Christians, a throne in itself. Between the
blaze of illumination, the flashing of gilding and gold, the tropical
flush of crimson velvet, the rainbow dyes on floor and walls, the
intoxicating gushes of perfume, and the delicious strains of unseen
music, it is no wonder Sir Norman Kingsley's head was spinning like a
bewildered teetotum.

Was he sane--was he sleeping? Had he drank too much wine at the Golden
Crown, and had it all gone to his head? Was it a scene of earnest
enchantment, or were fairy-tales true? Like Abou Hasson when he awoke
in the palace of the facetious Caliph of Bagdad, he had no notion of
believing his own eyes and ears, and quietly concluded it was all an
optical illusion, as ghosts are said to be; but he quietly resolved to
stay there, nevertheless, and see how the dazzling phantasmagoria would
end. The music was certainly ravishing, and it seemed to him, as he
listened with enchanted ears, that he never wanted to wake up from so
heavenly a dream.

One thing struck him as rather odd; strange and bewildered as everything
was, it did not seem at all strange to him, on the contrary, a vague
idea was floating mistily through his mind that he had beheld precisely
the same thing somewhere before. Probably at some past period of his
life he had beheld a similar vision, or had seen a picture somewhere
like it in a tale of magic, and satisfying himself with this conclusion,
he began wondering if the genii of the place were going to make their
appearance at all, or if the knowledge that human eyes were upon them
had scared them back to Erebus.

While still ruminating on this important question, a portion of the
tapestry, almost beneath him, shriveled up and up, and out flocked a
glittering throng, with a musical mingling of laughter and voices. Still
they came, more and more, until the great room was almost filled, and
a dazzling throng they were. Sir Norman had mingled in many a brilliant
scene at Whitehall, where the gorgeous court of Charles shone in all its
splendor, with the “merry monarch” at their head, but all he had ever
witnessed at the king's court fell far short of this pageant. Half
the brilliant flock were ladies, superb in satins, silks, velvets and
jewels. And such jewels! every gem that ever flashed back the sunlight
sparkled and blazed in blending array on those beautiful bosoms and
arms--diamonds, pearls, opals, emeralds, rubies, garnets, sapphires,
amethysts--every jewel that ever shone. But neither dresses nor gems
were half so superb as the peerless forms they adorned; and such an army
of perfectly beautiful faces, from purest blonde to brightest brunette,
had never met and mingled together before.

Each lovely face was unmasked, but Sir Norman's dazzled eyes in vain
sought among them for one he knew. All that “rosebud garden of girls”
 were perfect strangers to him, but not so the gallants, who fluttered
among them like moths around meteors. They, too, were in gorgeous array,
in purple and fine linen, which being interpreted, signifieth in silken
hose of every color under the sun, spangled and embroidered slippers
radiant with diamond buckles, doublets of as many different shades as
their tights, slashed with satin and embroidered with gold. Most of them
wore huge powdered wigs, according to the hideous fashion then in vogue,
and under those same ugly scalps, laughed many a handsome face Sir
Norman well knew. The majority of those richly-robed gallants were
strangers to him as well as the ladies, but whoever they were, whether
mortal men or “spirits from the vasty deep,” they were in the tallest
sort of clover just then. Evidently they knew it, too, and seemed to be
on the best of terms with themselves and all the world, and laughed,
and flirted, and flattered, with as much perfection as so many ball-room
Apollos of the present day.

Still no one ascended the golden and crimson throne, though many of the
ladies and gentlemen fluttering about it were arrayed as royally as any
common king or queen need wish to be. They promenaded up and down, arm
in arm; they seated themselves in the carved and gilded chairs; they
gathered in little groups to talk and laugh, did everything, in short,
but ascend the throne; and the solitary spectator up above began to grow
intensely curious to know who it was for. Their conversation he could
plainly hear, and to say that it amazed him, would be to use a feeble
expression, altogether inadequate to his feelings. Not that it was the
remarks they made that gave his system each a shook, but the names by
which they addressed each other. One answered to the aspiring cognomen
of the Duke of Northumberland; another was the Earl of Leicester;
another, the Duke of Devonshire; another, the Earl of Clarendon;
another, the Duke of Buckingham; and so on, ad infinitum, dukes and
earls alternately, like bricks and mortar in the wall of a house.
There were other dignitaries besides, some that Sir Norman had a faint
recollection of hearing were dead for some years--Cardinal Wolsey,
Sir Thomas More, the Earl of Bothwell, King Henry Darnley, Sir Walter
Raleigh, the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Southampton, the Duke of York,
and no end of others with equally sonorous titles. As for mere lords and
baronets, and such small deer, there was nothing so plebeian present,
and they were evidently looked upon by the distinguished assembly, like
small deer in thunder, with pity and contempt. The ladies, too, were all
duchesses, marchionesses, countesses, and looked fit for princesses,
Sir Norman thought, though he heard none of them styled quite so high as
that. The tone of conversation was light and easy, but at the same
time extremely ceremonious and courtly, and all seemed to be enjoying
themselves in the most delightful sort of a way, which people of,
such distinguished rank, I am told, seldom do. All went merry as a
marriage-bell, and sweetly over the gay jingle of voices rose the sweet,
faint strains of the unseen music.

Suddenly all was changed. The great door of glass and gilding opposite
the throne was flung wide, and a grand usher in a grand court livery
flourished a mighty grand wand, and shouted, in a stentorian voice,

“Back: back, ye lieges, and make way for Her Majesty, Queen Miranda!”

Instantly the unseen band thundered forth the national anthem. The
splendid throng fell back on either hand in profoundest silence and
expectation. The grand usher mysteriously disappeared, and in his place
there stalked forward a score of soldiers, with clanking swords and
fierce moustaches, in the gorgeous uniform of the king's body-guard.
These showy warriors arranged themselves silently on either side of the
crimson throne, and were followed by half a dozen dazzling personages,
the foremost crowned with mitre, armed with crozier, and robed in the
ecclesiastical glory of an archbishop, but the face underneath, to the
deep surprise and scandal of Sir Norman, was that of the fastest young
roue of Charles court, after him came another pompous dignitary, in such
unheard of magnificence that the unseen looker-on set him down for
a prime minister, or a lord high chancellor, at the very least. The
somewhat gaudy-looking gentlemen who stepped after the pious prelate and
peer wore the stars and garters of foreign courts, and were evidently
embassadors extraordinary to that of her midnight majesty. After them
came a snowy flock of fair young girls, angels all but the wings,
slender as sylphs, and robed in purest white. Each bore on her arm a
basket of flowers, roses and rosebuds of every tint, from snowy white to
darkest crimson, and as they floated in they scattered them lightly
as they went. And then after all came another vision, “the last, the
brightest, the best--the Midnight Queen,” herself. One other figure
followed her, and as they entered, a shout arose from the whole
assemblage, “Long live Queen Miranda!” And bowing gracefully and easily
to the right and left, the queen with a queenly step, trod the long
crimson carpet and mounted the regal throne.

From the first moment of his looking down, Sir Norman had been staring
with all the eyes in his head, undergoing one shock of surprise after
another with the equanimity of a man quite new to it; but now a cry
arose to his lips, and died there in voiceless consternation. For he
recognized the queen--well he might!--he had seen her before, and her
face was the face of Leoline!

As she mounted the stairs, she stood there for a moment crowned and
sceptred, before sitting down, and in that moment he recognized the
whole scene. That gorgeous room and its gorgeous inmates; that regal
throne and its regal owner, all became palpable as the sun at noonday;
that slender, exquisite figure, robed in royal purple and ermine; the
uncovered neck and arms, snowy and perfect, ablaze with jewels; that
lovely face, like snow, like marble, in its whiteness and calm, with
the great, dark, earnest eyes looking out, and the waving wealth of hair
falling around it. It was the very scene, and room, and vision, that
La Masque had shown him in the caldron, and that face was the face of
Leoline, and the earl's page.

Could he be dreaming? Was he sane or mad, or were the three really one?

While he looked, the beautiful queen bowed low, and amid the profoundest
and most respectful silence, took her seat. In her robes of purple,
wearing the glittering crown, sceptre in hand, throned and canopied,
royally beautiful she looked indeed, and a most vivid contrast to the
gentleman near her, seated very much at his ease, on the lower throne.
The contrast was not of dress--for his outward man was resplendent to
look at; but in figure and face, or grace and dignity, he was a very
mean specimen of the lords of creation, indeed. In stature, he scarcely
reached to the queen's royal shoulder, but made up sideways what he
wanted in length--being the breadth of two common men; his head was in
proportion to his width, and was decorated with a wig of long, flowing,
flaxen hair, that scarcely harmonized with a profusion of the article
whiskers, in hue most unmitigated black; his eyes were small, keen,
bright, and piercing, and glared on the assembled company as they had
done half an hour before on Sir Norman Kingsley, in the bar-room of the
Golden Crown; for the royal little man was no other than Caliban, the
dwarf. Behind the thrones the flock of floral angels grouped themselves;
archbishop, prime minister, and embassadors, took their stand within the
lines of the soldiery, and the music softly and impressively died sway
in the distance; dead silence reigned.

“My lord Duke,” began the queen, in the very voice he had heard at the
plague-pit, as she turned to the stylish individual next the archbishop,
“come forward and read us the roll of mortality since our last meeting.”

His grace, the duke, instantly stepped forward, bowing so low that
nothing was seen of him for a brief space, but the small of his back,
and when he reared himself up, after this convulsion of nature, Sir
Norman beheld a face not entirely new to him. At first, he could not
imagine where he had seen it, but speedily she recollected it was the
identical face of the highwayman who had beaten an inglorious retreat
from him and Count L'Estrange, that very night. This ducat robber drew
forth a roll of parchment, and began reading, in lachrymose tones,
a select litany of defunct gentlemen, with hifalutin titles who had
departed this life during the present week. Most of them had gone with
the plague, but a few had died from natural causes, and among these were
the Earls of Craven and Ashley.

“My lords Craven and Ashley dead!” exclaimed the queen, in tones of some
surprise, but very little anguish; “that is singular, for we saw them
not two hours ago, in excellent health and spirits.”

“True, poor majesty,” said the duke, dolefully, “and it is not an hour
since they quitted this vale of tears. They and myself rode forth
at nightfall, according to Custom, to lay your majesty's tax on all
travelers, and soon chanced to encounter one who gave vigorous battle;
still, it would have done him little service, had not another person
come suddenly to his aid, and between them they clove the skulls of
Ashley and Craven; and I,” said the duke, modestly, “I left.”

“Were either of the travelers young, and tall, and of courtly bearing?”
 exclaimed the dwarf with sharp rudeness.

“Both were, your highness,” replied the duke, bowing to the small
speaker, “and uncommonly handy with their weapons.”

“I saw one of them down at the Golden Crown, not long ago,” said the
dwarf; “a forward young popinjay, and mighty inquisitive about this,
our royal palace. I promised him, if he came here, a warm reception--a
promise I will have the greatest pleasure in fulfilling.”

“You may stand aside, my lord duke,” said the queen, with a graceful
wave of her hand, “and if any new subjects have been added to our court
since our last weekly meeting, let them come forward, and be sworn.”

A dozen or more courtiers immediately stepped forward, and kneeling
before the queen, announced their name and rank, which were both
ambitiously high. A few silvery-toned questions were put by that royal
lady and satisfactorily answered, and then the archbishop, armed with
a huge tome, administered a severe and searching oath, which the
candidates took with a great deal of sang froid, and were then
permitted to kiss the hand of the queen--a privilege worth any amount of
swearing--and retire.

“Let any one who has any reports to make, make them immediately,” again
commanded her majesty.

A number of gentlemen of high rank, presented themselves at this
summons, and began relating, as a certain sect of Christians do
in church, their experience! Many of these consisted, to the deep
disapproval of Sir Norman, of accounts of daring highway robberies, one
of them perpetrated on the king himself, which distinguished personage
the duplicate of Leoline styled “our brother Charles,” and of the
sums thereby attained. The treasurer of state was then ordered to show
himself, and give an account of the said moneys, which he promptly did;
and after him came a number of petitioners, praying for one thing and
another, some of which the queen promised to grant, and some she didn't.
These little affairs of state being over, Miranda turned to the little
gentleman beside her, with the observation,

“I believe, your highness, it is on this night the Earl of Gloucester is
to be tried on a charge of high treason, is it not?”

His highness growled a respectful assent.

“Then let him be brought before us,” said the queen. “Go, guards, and
fetch him.”

Two of the soldiers bowed low, and backed from the royal presence, amid
dead and ominous silence. At this interesting stage of the proceedings,
as Sir Norman was leaning forward, breathless and excited, a footstep
sounded on the flagged floor beside him, and some one suddenly grasped
his shoulder with no gentle hand.





CHAPTER IX. LEOLINE.

In one instant Sir Norman was on his feet and his hand on his sword. In
the tarry darkness, neither the face nor figure of the intruder could be
made out, but he merely saw a darker shadow beside him standing in the
sea of darkness. Perhaps he might have thought it a ghost, but that the
hand which grasped his shoulder was unmistakably of flesh, and blood,
and muscle, and the breathing of its owner was distinctly audible by his
side.

“Who are you?” demanded Sir Norman, drawing out his sword, and wrenching
himself free from his unseen companion.

“Ah! it is you, is it? I thought so,” said a not unknown voice. “I have
been calling you till I am hoarse, and at last gave it up, and started
after you in despair. What are you doing here?”

“You, Ormiston!” exclaimed Sir Norman, in the last degree astonished.
“How--when--what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here? that's more to the purpose. Down flat on
your face, with your head stuck through that hole. What is below there,
anyway?”

“Never mind,” said Sir Norman, hastily, who, for some reason quite
unaccountable to himself, did not wish Ormiston to see. “There's nothing
therein particular, but a lower range of vaults. Do you intend telling
me what has brought you here?”

“Certainly; the very fleetest horse I could find in the city.”

“Pshaw! You don't say so?” exclaimed Sir Norman, incredulously. “But
I presume you had some object in taking such a gallop? May I ask what?
Your anxious solicitude on my account, very likely?”

“Not precisely. But, I say, Kingsley, what light is that shining through
there? I mean to see.”

“No, you won't,” said Sir Norman, rapidly and noiselessly replacing the
flag. “It's nothing, I tell you, but a number of will-o-'wisps having
a ball. Finally, and for the last time, Mr. Ormiston, will you have the
goodness to tell me what has sent you here?”

“Come out to the air, then. I have no fancy for talking in this place;
it smells like a tomb.”

“There is nothing wrong, I hope?” inquired Sir Norman, following his
friend, and threading his way gingerly through the piles of rubbish in
the profound darkness.

“Nothing wrong, but everything extremely right. Confound this place!
It would be easier walking on live eels than through these winding and
lumbered passages. Thank the fates, we are through them, at last! for
there is the daylight, or, rather the nightlight, and we have escaped
without any bones broken.”

They had reached the mouldering and crumbling doorway, shown by a square
of lighter darkness, and exchanged the damp, chill atmosphere of the
vaults for the stagnant, sultry open air. Sir Norman, with a notion in
his head that his dwarfish highness might have placed sentinels around
his royal residence, endeavored to pierce the gloom in search of them.
Though he could discover none, he still thought discretion the better
part of valor, and stepped out into the road.

“Now, then, where are you going?” inquired Ormiston for, following him.

“I don't wish to talk here; there is no telling who may be listening.
Come along.”

Ormiston glanced back at the gloomy rain looming up like a black spectre
in the blackness.

“Well, they must have a strong fancy for eavesdropping, I must say, who
world go to that haunted heap to listen. What have you seen there, and
where have you left your horse?”

“I told you before,” said Sir Norman, rather impatiently, “that I have
seen nothing--at least, nothing you would care about; and my horse is
waiting me at the Golden Crown.”

“Very well, we have no time to lose; so get there as fast as you can,
and mount him and ride as if the demon were after you back to London.”

“Back to London? Is the man crazy? I shall do no such thing, let me tell
you, to-night.”

“Oh, just as you please,” said Ormiston, with a great deal of
indifference, considering the urgent nature of his former request. “You
can do as you like, you know, and so can I--which translated, means, I
will go and tell her you have declined to come.”

“Tell her? Tell whom? What are you talking about? Hang it, man!”
 exclaimed Sir Norman, getting somewhat excited and profane, “what are
you driving at? Can't you speak out and tell me at once?”

“I have told you!” said Ormiston, testily: “and I tell you again, she
sent me in search of you, and if you don't choose to come, that's your
own affair, and not mine.”

This was a little too much for Sir Norman's overwrought feelings, and in
the last degree of exasperation, he laid violent hands on the collar of
Ormiston's doublet, and shook him as if he would have shaken the name
out with a jerk.

“I tell you what it is, Ormiston, you had better not aggravate me! I can
stand a good deal, but I'm not exactly Moses or Job, and you had better
mind what you're at. If you don't come to the point at once, and tell
me who I she is, I'll throttle you where you stand; and so give you
warning.”

Half-indignant, and wholly laughing, Ormiston stepped back out of the
way of his excited friend.

“I cry you mercy! In one word, then, I have been dispatched by a lady in
search of you, and that lady is--Leoline.”

It has always been one of the inscrutable mysteries in natural
philosophy that I never could fathom, why men do not faint. Certain it
is, I never yet heard of a man swooning from excess of surprise or
joy, and perhaps that may account for Sir Norman's not doing so on the
present occasion. But he came to an abrupt stand-still in their rapid
career; and if it had not been quite so excessively dark, his friend
would have beheld a countenance wonderful to look on, in its mixture of
utter astonishment and sublime consternation.

“Leoline!” he faintly gasped. “Just stop a moment, Ormiston, and say
that again--will you?”

“No,” said Ormiston, hurrying unconcernedly on; “I shall do no such
thing, for there is no time to lose, and if there were I have no fancy
for standing in this dismal road. Come on, man, and I'll tell you as we
go.”

Thus abjured, and seeing there was no help for it, Sir Norman, in a
dazed and bewildered state, complied; and Ormiston promptly and briskly
relaxed into business.

“You see, my dear fellow, to begin at the beginning, after you left, I
stood at ease at La Masque's door, awaiting that lady's return, and
was presently rewarded by seeing her come up with an old woman called
Prudence. Do you recollect the woman who rushed screaming out of the
home of the dead bride?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, that was Prudence. She and La Masque were talking so earnestly
they did not perceive me, and I--well, the fact is, Kingsley, I stayed
and listened. Not a very handsome thing, perhaps, but I couldn't resist
it. They were talking of some one they called Leoline, and I, in a
moment, knew that it was your flame, and that neither of them knew any
more of her whereabouts than we did.”

“And yet La Masque told me to come here in search of her,” interrupted
Sir Norman.

“Very true! That was odd--wasn't it? This Prudence, it appears, was
Leoline's nurse, and La Masque, too, seemed to have a certain authority
over her; and between them, I learned she was to have been married this
very night, and died--or, at least, Prudence thought so--an hour or two
before the time.”

“Then she was not married?” cried Sir Norman, in an ecstasy of delight.

“Not a bit of it; and what is more, didn't want to be; and judging from
the remarks of Prudence, I should say, of the two, rather preferred the
plague.”

“Then why was she going to do it? You don't mean to say she was forced?”

“Ah, but I do, though! Prudence owned it with the most charming candor
in the world.”

“Did you hear the name of the person she was to have married?” asked Sir
Norman, with kindling eyes.

“I think not; they called him the count, if my memory serves me, and
Prudence intimated that he knew nothing of the melancholy fate of
Mistress Leoline. Most likely it was the person in the cloak and
slouched hat we saw talking to the watchman.”

Sir Norman said nothing, but he thought a good deal, and the burden of
his thoughts was an ardent and heartfelt wish that the Court L'Estrange
was once more under the swords of the three robbers, and waiting for him
to ride to the rescue--that was all!

“La Masque urged Prudence to go back,” continued Ormiston; “but Prudence
respectfully declined, and went her way bemoaning the fate of her
darling. When she was gone, I stepped up to Madame Masque, and that
lady's first words of greeting were an earnest hope that I had been
edified and improved by what I had overheard.”

“She saw you, then?” said Sir Norman.

“See me? I believe you! She has more eyes than ever Argus had, and each
one is as sharp as a cambric needle. Of course I apologized, and so on,
and she forgave me handsomely, and then we fell to discoursing--need I
tell you on what subject?”

“Love, of course,” said Sir Norman.

“Yes, mingled with entreaties to take off her mask that would have moved
a heart of stone. It moved what was better--the heart of La Masque; and,
Kingsley, she has consented to do it; and she says that if, after seeing
her face, I still love her, she will be my wife.”

“Is it possible? My dear Ormiston, I congratulate you with all my
heart!”

“Thank you! After that she left me, and I walked away in such a frenzy
of delight that I couldn't have told whether I was treading this earth
or the shining stars of the seventh heaven, when suddenly there flew
past me a figure all in white--the figure of a bride, Kingsley, pursued
by an excited mob. We were both near the river, and the first thing I
knew, she was plump into it, with the crowd behind, yelling to stop her,
that she was ill of the plague.”

“Great Heaven! and was she drowned?”

“No, though it was not her fault. The Earl of Rochester and his
page--you remember that page, I fancy--were out in their barge, and
the earl picked her up. Then I got a boat, set out after her, claimed
her--for I recognized her, of course--brought her ashore, and deposited
her safe and sound in her own house. What do you think of that?”

“Ormiston,” said Norman, catching him by the shoulder, with a very
excited face, “is this true?”

“True as preaching, Kingsley, every word of it! And the most
extraordinary part of the business is, that her dip in cold water has
effectually cured her of the plague; not a trace of it remains.”

Sir Norman dropped his hand, and walked on, staring straight before him,
perfectly speechless. In fact, no known language in the world could have
done justice to his feelings at that precise period; for three times
that night, in three different shapes, had he seen this same Leoline,
and at the same moment he was watching her decked out in royal state in
the rain, Ormiston had probably been assisting her from her cold bath in
the river Thames.

Astonishment and consternation are words altogether too feeble to
express his state of mind; but one idea remained clear and bright amid
all his mental chaos, and that was, that the Leoline he had fallen in
love with dead, was awaiting him, alive and well, in London.

“Well,” said Ormiston, “you don't speak! What do you think of all this?”

“Think! I can't think--I've got past that long ago!” replied his friend,
hopelessly. “Did you really say Leoline was alive and well?”

“And waiting for you--yes, I did, and I repeat it; and the sooner you
get back to town, the sooner you will see her; so don't loiter--”

“Ormiston, what do you mean! Is it possible I can see her to-night?”

“Yes, it is; the dear creature is waiting for you even now. You see,
after we got to the house, and she had consented to become a little
rational, mutual explanations ensued, by which it appeared she had ran
away from Sir Norman Kingsley's in a state of frenzy, had jumped into
the river in a similarly excited state of mind, and was most anxious
to go down on her pretty knees and thank the aforesaid Sir Norman for
saving her life. What could any one as gallant as myself do under these
circumstances, but offer to set forth in quest of that gentleman? And
she promptly consented to sit up and wait his coming, and dismissed me
with her blessing. And, Kingsley, I've a private notion she is as deeply
affected by you as you are by her; for, when I mentioned your name, she
blushed, yea, verily to the roots of her hair; and when she spoke of
you, couldn't so much as look me in the face--which is, you must own, a
very bad symptom.”

“Nonsense!” said Sir Norman, energetically. And had it been daylight,
his friend would have seen that he blushed almost as extensively as the
lady. “She doesn't know me.”

“Ah, doesn't she, though? That shows all you know about it! She has
seen you go past the window many and many a time; and to see you,” said
Ormiston, making a grimace undercover of the darkness, “is to love! She
told me so herself.”

“What! That she loved me!” exclaimed Sir Norman, his notions of
propriety to the last degree shocked by such a revelation.

“Not altogether, she only looked that; but she said she knew you well
by sight, and by heart, too, as I inferred from her countenance when
she said it. There now, don't make me talk any more, for I have told you
everything I know, and am about hoarse with my exertions.”

“One thing only--did she tell you who she was?”

“No, except that her name was Leoline, and nothing else--which struck me
as being slightly improbable. Doubtless, she will tell you everything,
and one piece of advice I may venture to give you, which is, you may
propose as soon as you like without fear of rejection. Here we are at
the Golden Crown, so go in and get your horse, and let us be off.”

All this time Ormiston had been leading his own horse by the bridle, and
as Sir Norman silently complied with this suggestion, in five minutes
more they were in their saddles, and galloping at break-neck speed toward
the city. To tell the truth, one was not more inclined for silence than
the other, and the profoundest and thoughtfulest silence was maintained
till they reached it. One was thinking of Leoline, the other of La
Masque, and both were badly in love, and just at that particular moment
very happy. Of course the happiness of people in that state never lasts
longer than half an hour at a stretch, and then they are plunged back
again into misery and distraction; but while it does last, it in, very
intense and delightful indeed.

Our two friends having drained the bitten, had got to the bottom of the
cup, and neither knew that no sooner were the sweets swallowed, than
it was to be replenished with a doubly-bitter dose. Neither of them
dismounted till they reached the house of Leoline, and there Sir Norman
secured his horse, and looked up at it with a beating heart. Not that
it was very unusual for his heart to beat, seeing it never did anything
else; but on that occasion its motion was so much accelerated, that any
doctor feeling his pulse might have justly set him down as a bad case
of heart-disease. A small, bright ray of light streamed like a beacon
of hope from an upper window, and the lover looked at it as a clouded
mariner might at the shining of the North Star.

“Are you coming in, Ormiston?” he inquired, feeling, for the first time
in his life, almost bashful. “It seems to me it would only be right, you
know.”

“I don't mind going in and introducing` you,” said Ormiston; “but after
you have been delivered over, you may fight your own battles, and take
care of yourself. Come on.”

The door was unfastened, and Ormiston sprang upstairs with the air of a
man--quite at home, followed more decorously by Sir Norman. The door
of the lady's room stood ajar, as he had left it, and in answer to his
“tapping at the chamber-door,” a sweet feminine voice called “come in.”

Ormiston promptly obeyed, and the next instant they were in the room,
and in the presence of the dead bride. Certainly she did not look dead,
but very much alive, just then, as she sat in an easy-chair, drawn up
before the dressing-table, on which stood the solitary lamp that illumed
the chamber. In one hand she held a small mirror, or, as it was then
called, a “sprunking-glass,” in which she was contemplating her own
beauty, with as much satisfaction as any other pretty girl might justly
do. She had changed her drenched dress during Ormiston's absence, and
now sat arrayed in a swelling amplitude of rose-colored satin, her dark
hair clasped and bound by a circle of milk-white pearls, and her pale,
beautiful face looking ten degrees more beautiful than ever, in contrast
with the bright rose-silk, shining dark hair, and rich white jewels. She
rose up as they entered, and came forward with the same glow on her face
and the same light in her eyes that one of them had seen before, and
stood with drooping eyelashes, lovely as a vision in the centre of the
room.

“You see I have lost no time in obeying your ladyship's commands,” began
Ormiston, bowing low. “Mistress Leoline, allow me to present Sir Norman
Kingsley.”

Sir Norman Kingsley bent almost as profoundly before the lady as
the lord high chancellor had done before Queen Miranda; and the lady
courtesied, in return, until her pink-satin skirt ballooned out all over
the floor. It was quite an affecting tableau. And so Ormiston felt, as
he stood eyeing it with preternatural gravity.

“I owe my life to Sir Norman Kingsley,” murmured the faint, sweet voice
of the lady, “and could not rest until I had thanked him. I have no
words to say how deeply thankful and grateful I am.”

“Fairest Leoline! one word from such lips would be enough to repay me,
had I done a thousandfold more,” responded Norman, laying his hand on
his heart, with another deep genuflection.

“Very pretty indeed!” remarked Ormiston to himself, with a little
approving nod; “but I'm afraid they won't be able to keep it up, and go
on talking on stilts like that, till they have finished. Perhaps they
may get on all the better if I take myself off, there being always one
too many in a case like this.” Then aloud: “Madame, I regret that I am
obliged to depart, having a most particular appointment; but, doubtless,
my friend will be able to express himself without my assistance. I have
the honor to wish you both good-night.”

With which neat and appropriate speech, Ormiston bowed himself out, and
was gone before Leoline could detain him, even if she wished to do so.
Probably, however, she thought the care of one gentleman sufficient
responsibility at once; and she did not look very seriously distressed
by his departure; and, the moment he disappeared, Sir Norman brightened
up wonderfully.

It is very discomposing to the feelings to make love in the presence of
a third party; and Sir Norman had no intention of wasting his time on
anything, and went at it immediately. Taking her hand, with a grace
that would have beaten Sir Charles Grandison or Lord Chesterfield all
to nothing, he led her to a couch, and took a seat as near her as was
at all polite or proper, considering the brief nature of their
acquaintance. The curtains were drawn; the lamp shed a faint light; the
house was still, and there was no intrusive papa to pounce down upon
them; the lady was looking down, and seemed in no way haughty
or discouraging, and Sir Norman's spirits went up with a jump to
boiling-point.

Yet the lady, with all her pretty bashfulness, was the first to speak.

“I'm afraid, Sir Norman, you must think this a singular hour to come
here; but, in these dreadful times, we cannot tell if we may live from
one moment to another; and I should not like to die, or have you die,
without my telling, and you hearing, all my gratitude. For I do
assure you, Sir Norman,” said the lady, lifting her dark eyes with the
prettiest and most bewitching earnestness, “that I am grateful, though I
cannot find words to express it.”

“Madame, I would not listen to you if you would; for I have done nothing
to deserve thanks. I wish I could tell you what I felt when Ormiston
told me you were alive and safe.”

“You are very kind, but pray do not call me madame. Say Leoline!”

“A thousand thanks, dear Leoline!” exclaimed Sir Norman, raising her
hand to his lips, and quite beside himself with ecstasy.

“Ah, I did not tell you to say that!” she cried, with a gay laugh and
vivid blush. “I never said you were to call me dear.”

“It arose from my heart to my lips,” said Sir Norman, with thrilling
earnestness and fervid glance; “for you are dear to me--dearer than all
the world beside!”

The flush grew a deeper glow on the lady's face; but, singular to
relate, she did not look the least surprised or displeased; and the hand
he had feloniously purloined lay passive and quite contented in his.

“Sir Norman Kingsley is pleased to jest,” said the lady, in a subdued
tone, and with her eyes fixed pertinaciously on her shining dress; “for
he has never spoken to me before in his life!”

“That has nothing to do with it, Leoline. I love you as devotedly as if
I had known you from your birthday; and, strange to say, I feel as if we
had been friends for years instead of minutes. I cannot realize at all
that you are a stranger to me!”

Leoline laughed:

“Nor I; though, for that matter, you are not a stranger to me, Sir
Norman!”

“Am I not? How is that!”

“I have seen you go past so often, you know; and Prudence told me who
you were; and so I need--I used--” hesitating and glowing to a degree
before which her dress paled.

“Well, dearest,” said Sir Norman, getting from the positive to the
superlative at a jump, and diminishing the distance between them, “you
need to--what?”

“To watch for you!” said Leoline, in a sly whisper. “And so I have got
to know you very well!”

“My own darling! And, O Leoline! may I hope--dare I hope--that you do
not altogether hate me?”

Leoline looked reflective; though her bleak eyes were sparkling under
their sweeping lashes.

“Why, no,” she said, demurely, “I don't know as I do. It's very sinful
and improper to hate one's fellow-creatures, you know, Sir Norman, and
therefore I don't indulge in it.”

“Ah! you are given to piety, I see. In that case, perhaps you are aware
of a precept commanding us to love our neighbors. Now, I'm your nearest
neighbor at present; so, to keep up a consistent Christian spirit, just
be good enough to say you love me!”

Again Leoline laughed; and this time the bright, dancing eyes beamed in
their sparkling darkness full upon him.

“I am afraid your theology is not very sound, my friend, and I have
a dislike to extremes. There is a middle course, between hating and
loving. Suppose I take that?”

“I will have no middle courses--either hating or loving it must be!
Leoline! Leoline!” (bending over her, and imprisoning both hands this
time) “do say you love me!”

“I am captive in your hands, so I must, I suppose. Yes, Sir Norman, I do
love you!”

Every man hearing that for the first time from a pair of loved lips
is privileged to go mad for a brief season, and to go through certain
manoeuvers much more delectable to the enjoyers than to society at
large. For fully ten minutes after Leoline's last speech, there was
profound silence. But actions sometimes speak louder than words; and
Leoline was perfectly convinced that her declaration had not fallen on
insensible ears. At the end of that period, the space between them on
the couch had so greatly diminished, that the ghost of a zephyr would
have been crushed to death trying to get between them; and Sir Norman's
face was fairly radiant. Leoline herself looked rather beaming; and she
suddenly, and without provocation, burst into a merry little peal of
laughter.

“Well, for two people who were perfect strangers to each other half
an hour ago, I think we have gone on remarkably well. What will Mr.
Ormiston and Prudence say, I wonder, when they hear this?”

“They will say what is the truth--that I am the luckiest man in England.
O Leoline! I never thought it was in me to love any one as I do you.”'

“I am very glad to hear it; but I knew that it was in me long before I
ever dreamed of knowing you. Are you not anxious to know something about
the future Lady Kingsley's past history?”

“It will all come in good time; it is not well to have a surfeit of joy
in one night.

“I do not know that this will add to your joy; but it had better be told
and be done with, at once and forever. In the first place, I presume I
am an orphan, for I have never known father or mother, and I have never
had any other name but Leoline.”

“So Ormiston told me.”

“My first recollection is of Prudence; she was my nurse and governess,
both in one; and we lived in a cottage by the sea--I don't know where,
but a long way from this. When I was about ten years old, we left it,
and came to London, and lived in a house in Cheapside, for five or six
years; and then we moved here. And all this time, Sir Norman you will
think it strange--but I never made any friends or acquaintances, and
knew no one but Prudence and an old Italian professor, who came to
our lodgings in Cheapside, every week, to give me lessons. It was not
because I disliked society, you must know; but Prudence, with all
her kindness and goodness--and I believe she truly loves me--has been
nothing more or less all my life than my jailer.”

She paused to clasp a belt of silver brocade, fastened by a pearl
buckle, close around her little waist, and Sir Norman fixed his eyes
upon her beautiful face, with a powerful glance.

“Knew no one--that is strange, Leoline! Not even the Count L'Estrange?”

“Ah! you know him?” she cried eagerly, lifting her eyes with a bright
look; “do--do tell me who he is?”

“Upon my honor, my dear,” said Sir Norman, considerably taken aback,
“it strikes me you are the person to answer that question. If I don't
greatly mistake, somebody told me you were going to marry him.”

“Oh, so I was,” said Leoline, with the utmost simplicity. “But I don't
know him, for all that; and more than that, Sir Norman, I do not believe
his name is Count L'Estrange, any more than mine is!”

“Precisely my opinion; but why, in the name of--no, I'll not swear; but
why were you going to marry him, Leoline?”

Leoline half pouted, and shrugged her pretty pink satin shoulders.

“Because I couldn't help it--that's why. He coaxed, and coaxed; and I
said no, and no, and no, until I got tired of it. Prudence, too, was as
bad as he was, until between them I got about distracted, and at last
consented to marry him to get rid of him.”

“My poor, persecuted little darling! Oh,” cried Sir Norman, with a burst
of enthusiasm, “how I should admire to have Count L'Estrange here for
about ten minutes, just now! I would spoil his next wooing for him, or I
am mistaken!”

“No, no!” said Leoline, looking rather alarmed; “you must not fight, you
know. I shouldn't at all like either of you to get killed. Besides, he
has not married me; and so there's no harm done.”

Sir Norman seemed rather struck by that view of the case, and after a
few moments reflection on it, came to the conclusion that she knew best,
and settled down peaceably again.

“Why do you suppose his name is not Count L'Estrange?” he asked.

“For many reasons. First--he is disguised; wears false whiskers,
moustache, and wig, and even the voice he uses appears assumed. Then
Prudence seems in the greatest awe of him, and she is not one to be
easily awed. I never knew her to be in the slightest degree intimidated
by any human being but himself and that mysterious woman, La Masque.

“Ah! you know La Masque, then?”

“Not personally; but I have seen her as I did you, you remember,”
 with an arch glance; “and, like you, being once seen, is not to be
forgotten.”

Sir Norman promptly paid her for the compliment in Cupid's own coin:

“Little flatterer! I can almost forgive Count L'Estrange for wanting
to marry you; for I presume he it only a man, and not quite equal to
impossibilities. How long is it since you knew him first?”

“Not two months. My courtships,” said Leoline, with a gay laugh, “seem
destined to be of the shortest. He saw me one evening in the window,
and immediately insisted on being admitted; and after that, he continued
coming until I had to promise, as I have told you, to be Countess
L'Estrange.”

“He cannot be much of a gentleman, or he would not attempt to force a
lady against her will. And so, when you were dressed for your bridal,
you found you had the plague?”

“Yes, Sir Norman; and horrible as that was I do assure you I almost
preferred it to marrying him.”

“Leoline, tell me how long it is since you've known me?”

“Nearly three months,” said Leoline, blushing again celestial rosy red.

“And how long have you loved me?”

“Nonsense. What a question! I shall not tell you.”

“You shall--you must--I insist upon it. Did you love me before you met
the count? Out with it.”

“Well, then--yes!” cried Leoline desperately.

Sir Norman raised the hand he held, in rapture to his lips:

“My darling! But I will reserve my raptures, for it is growing late,
and I know you must want to go to rest. I have a thousand things to
tell you, but they must wait for daylight; only I will promise, before
parting, that this is the last night you must spend here.”

Leoline opened her bright eyes very wide.

“To-morrow morning,” went on Sir Norman, impressively, and with dignity,
“you will be up and dressed by sunrise, and shortly after that radiant
period, I will make my appearance with two horses--one of which I shall
ride, and the other I shall lead: the one I lead you shall mount, and
we will ride to the nearest church, and be married without any pomp or
pageant; and then Sir Norman and Lady Kingsley will immediately leave
London, and in Kingsley Castle, Devonshire, will enjoy the honeymoon and
blissful repose till the plague is over. Do you understand that?”

“Perfectly,” she answered, with a radiant face.

“And agree to it?”

“You know I do, Sir Norman; only--”

“Well, my pet, only what?”

“Sir Norman, I should like to see Prudence. I want Prudence. How can I
leave her behind?”

“My dear child, she made nothing of leaving you when she thought you
were dying; so never mind Prudence, but say, will you be ready?”

“I will.”

“That is my good little Leoline. Now give me a kiss, Lady Kingsley, and
good-night.”

Lady Kingsley dutifully obeyed; and Sir Norman went out with a glow at
his heart, like a halo round a full moon.





CHAPTER X. THE PAGE, THE FIRES, AND THE FALL.

The night was intensely dark when Sir Norman got into it once more; and
to any one else would have been intensely dismal, but to Sir Norman all
was bright as the fair hills of Beulah. When all is bright within, we
see no darkness without; and just at that moment our young knight had
got into one of those green and golden glimpses of sunshine that here
and there checker life's rather dark pathway, and with Leoline beside
him would have thought the dreary shores of the Dead Sea itself a very
paradise.

It was now near midnight, and there was an unusual concourse of people
in the streets, waiting for St. Paul's to give the signal to light the
fires. He looked around for Ormiston; but Ormiston was nowhere to be
seen--horse and rider had disappeared. His own horse stood tethered
where he had left him. Anxious as he was to ride back to the ruin, and
see the play played out, he could not resist the temptation of lingering
a brief period in the city, to behold the grand spectacle of the myriad
fires. Many persons were hurrying toward St. Paul's to witness it from
the dome; and consigning his horse to the care of the sentinel on guard
at the house opposite, he joined them, and was soon striding along, at
a tremendous pace, toward the great cathedral. Ere he reached it, its
long-tongued clock tolled twelve, and all the other churches, one after
another, took up the sound, and the witching hour of midnight rang and
rerang from end to end of London town. As if by magic, a thousand forked
tongues of fire shot up at once into the blind, black night, turning
almost in an instant the darkened face of the heavens to an inflamed,
glowing red. Great fires were blazing around the cathedral when they
reached it, but no one stopped to notice them, but only hurried on the
faster to gain their point of observation.

Sir Norman just glanced at the magnificent pile--for the old St. Paul's
was even more magnificent than the new,--and then followed after the
rest, through many a gallery, tower, and spiral staircase till the dome
was reached. And there a grand and mighty spectacle was before him--the
whole of London swaying and heaving in one great sea of fire. From one
end to the other, the city seemed wrapped in sheets of flame, and every
street, and alley, and lane within it shone in a lurid radiance far
brighter than noonday. All along the river fires were gleaming, too; and
the whole sky had turned from black to blood-red crimson. The streets
were alive and swarming--it could scarcely be believed that the
plague-infested city contained half so many people, and all were
unusually hopeful and animated; for it was popularly believed that these
fires would effectually check the pestilence. But the angry fiat of a
Mighty Judge had gone forth, and the tremendous arm of the destroying
angel was not to be stopped by the puny hand of man.

It has been said the weather for weeks was unusually brilliant, days of
cloudless sunshine, nights of cloudless moonlight, and the air was warm
and sultry enough for the month of August in the tropics. But now,
while they looked, a vivid flash of lightning, from what quarter of
the heavens no man knew, shot athwart the sky, followed by another and
another, quick, sharp, and blinding. Then one great drop of rain fell
like molten lead on the pavement, then a second and a third quicker,
faster, and thicker, until down it crashed in a perfect deluge. It did
not wait to rain; it fell in floods--in great, slanting sheets of water,
an is the very floodgates of heaven had opened for a second deluge. No
one ever remembered to have seen such torrents fall, and the populace
fled before it in wildest dismay. In five minutes, every fire, from one
extremity of London to the other, was quenched in the very blackness
of darkness, and on that night the deepest gloom and terror reigned
throughout the city. It was clear the hand of an avenging Deity was in
this, and He who had rained down fire on Sodom and Gomorrah had not lost
His might. In fifteen minutes the terrific flood was over; the dismal
clouds cleared away, a pale, fair, silver moon shone serenely out, and
looked down on the black, charred heaps of ashes strewn through the
streets of London. One by one, the stars that all night had been
obscured, glanced and sparkled over the sky, and lit up with their soft,
pale light the doomed and stricken town. Everybody had quitted the dome
in terror and consternation; and now Sir Norman, who had been lost in
awe, suddenly bethought him of his ride to the ruin, and hastened to
follow their example. Walking rapidly, not to say recklessly, along, he
abruptly knocked against some one sauntering leisurely before him,
and nearly pitched headlong on the pavement. Recovering his centre
of gravity by a violent effort, he turned to see the cause of the
collision, and found himself accosted by a musical and foreign-accented
voice.

“Pardon,” said the sweet, and rather feminine tones; “it was quite an
accident, I assure you, monsieur. I had no idea I was in anybody's way.”

Sir Norman looked at the voice, or rather in the direction whence it
came, and found it proceeded from a lad in gay livery, whose clear,
colorless face, dark eyes, and exquisite features were by no means
unknown. The boy seemed to recognize him at the same moment, and
slightly touched his gay cap.

“Ah! it is Sir Norman Kingsley! Just the very person, but one, in the
world that I wanted most to see.”

“Indeed! And, pray, whom have I the honor of addressing?” inquired Sir
Norman, deeply edified by the cool familiarity of the accoster.

“They call me Hubert--for want of a better name, I suppose,” said
the lad, easily. “And may I ask, Sir Norman, if you are shod with
seven-leagued boots, or if your errand is one of life and death, that
you stride along at such a terrific rate?”

“And what is that to you?” asked Sir Norman, indignant at his
free-and-easy impudence.

“Nothing; only I should like to keep up with you, if my legs were long
enough; and as they're not, and as company is not easily to be had in
these forlorn streets, I should feel obliged to you if you would just
slacken your pace a trifle, and take me in tow.”

The boy's face in the moonlight, in everything but expression, was
exactly that of Leoline, to which softening circumstance may be
attributed Sir Norman's yielding to the request, and allowing the page
to keep along side.

“I've met you once before to-night?” inquired Sir Norman, after a
prolonged and wondering stare at him.

“Yes; I have a faint recollection of seeing you and Mr. Ormiston on
London Bridge, a few hours ago, and, by the way, perhaps I may mention I
am now in search of that same Mr. Ormiston.”

“You are! And what may you want of him, pray?”

“Just a little information of a private character--perhaps you can
direct me to his whereabouts.”

“Should be happy to oblige you, my dear boy, but, unfortunately, I
cannot. I want to see him myself, if I could find any one good enough to
direct me to him. Is your business pressing?”

“Very--there is a lady in the case; and such business, you are aware,
is always pressing. Probably you have heard of her--a youthful angel,
in virgin white, who took a notion to jump into the Thames, not a great
while ago.”

“Ah!” said Sir Norman, with a start that did not escape the quick eyes
of the boy. “And what do you want of her?”

The page glanced at him.

“Perhaps you know her yourself, sir Norman? If so, you will answer quite
as well as your friend, as I only want to know where she lives.”

“I have been out of town to-night,” said Sir Norman, evasively, “and
there may have been more ladies than one jumped into the Thames during
my absence. Pray, describe your angel in white.”

“I did not notice her particularly myself,” said the boy, with easy
indifference, “as I am not in the habit of paying much attention
to young ladies who run wild about the streets at night and jump
promiscuously into rivers. However, this one was rather remarkable, for
being dressed as a bride, having long black hair, and a great quantity
of jewelry about her, and looking very much like me. Having said she
looks like me, I need not add she is handsome.”

“Vanity of vanities, all in vanity!” murmured Sir Norman, meditatively.
“Perhaps she is a relative of yours, Master Hubert, since you take such
an interest in her, and she looks so much like you.”

“Not that I know of,” said Hubert, in his careless way. “I believe I
was born minus those common domestic afflictions, relatives; and I don't
take the slightest interest in her, either; don't think it!”

“Then why are you in search of her?”

“For a very good reason--because I've been ordered to do so.”

“By whom--your master?”

“My Lord Rochester,” said that nobleman's page, waving off the
insinuation by a motion of his hand and a little displeased frown;
“he picked her up adrift, and being composed of highly inflammable
materials, took a hot and vehement fancy for her, which fact he did not
discover until your friend, Mr. Ormiston, had carried her off.”

Sir Norman scowled.

“And so he sent you in search of her, has he?”

“Exactly so; and now you perceive the reason why it is quite important
that I find Mr. Ormiston. We do not know where he has taken her to, but
fancy it must be somewhere near the river.”

“You do? I tell you what it is, my boy,” exclaimed Sir Norman, suddenly
and in an elevated key, “the best thing you can do is, to go home and
go to bed, and never mind young ladies. You'll catch the plague before
you'll catch this particular young lady--I can tell you that!”

“Monsieur is excited,” lisped the lad raising his hat and running his
taper fingers through his glossy, dark curls. “Is she as handsome as
they say she is, I wonder?”

“Handsome!” cried Sir Norman, lighting up with quite a new sensation at
the recollection. “I tell you handsome doesn't begin to describe her!
She is beautiful, lovely, angelic, divine--” Here Sir Norman's litany of
adjectives beginning to give out, he came to a sudden halt, with a face
as radiant as the sky at sunrise.

“Ah! I did not believe them, when they told me she was so much like
me; but if she is as near perfection as you describe, I shall begin to
credit it. Strange, is it not, that nature should make a duplicate of
her greatest earthly chef d'oeuvre?”

“You conceited young jackanapes!” growled Sir Norman, in deep
displeasure. “It is far stranger how such a bundle of vanity can
contrive to live in this work-a-day world. You are a foreigner, I
perceive?”

“Yes, Sir Norman, I am happy to say I am.”

“You don't like England, then?”

“I'd be sorry to like it; a dirty, beggarly, sickly place as I ever
saw!”

Sir Norman eyed the slender specimen of foreign manhood, uttering this
sentiment in the sincerest of tones, and let his hand fall heavily on
his shoulder.

“My good youth, be careful! I happen to be a native, and not altogether
used to this sort of talk. How long have you been here? Not long, I know
myself--at least, not in the Earl of Rochester's service, or I would
have seen you.”

“Right! I have not been here a month; but that month has seemed longer
than a year elsewhere. Do you know, I imagine when the world was
created, this island of yours must have been made late on Saturday
night, and then merely thrown in from the refuse to fill up a dent in
the ocean.”

Sir Norman paused in his walk, and contemplated the speaker a moment in
severest silence. But Master Hubert only lifted up his saucy face and
laughing black eyes, in dauntless sang froid.

“Master Hubert,” began Master Hubert's companion, in his deepest and
sternest bass, “I don't know your other name, and it would be of no
consequence if I did--just listen to me a moment. If you don't want to
get run through (you perceive I carry a sword), and have an untimely
end put to your career, just keep a civil tongue in your head, and don't
slander England. Now come on!”

Hubert laughed and shrugged his shoulders:

“Thought is free, however, so I can have my own opinion in spite of
everything. Will you tell me, monsieur, where I can find the lady?”

“You will have it, will you?” exclaimed Sir Norman, half drawing his
sword. “Don't ask questions, but answer them. Are you French?”

“Monsieur has guessed it.”

“How long have you been with your present master?”

“Monsieur, I object to that term,” said Hubert, with calm dignity.
“Master is a vulgarism that I dislike; so, in alluding to his lordship,
take the trouble to say, patron.”

Sir Norman laughed.

“With all my heart! How long, then, have you been with your present
patron?”

“Not quite two weeks.”

“I do not like to be impertinently inquisitive in addressing so
dignified a gentleman, but perhaps you would not consider it too great a
liberty, if I inquired how you became his page?”

“Monsieur shall ask as many questions as he pleases, and it shall not be
considered the slightest liberty,” said the young gentleman, politely.
“I had been roaming at large about the city and the palace of his
majesty--whom may Heaven preserve, and grant a little more wisdom!--in
search of a situation; and among that of all nobles of the court, the
Earl of Rochester's livery struck me as being the most becoming, and so
I concluded to patronize him.”

“What an honor for his lordship! Since you dislike England so much,
however, you will probably soon throw up the situation and, patronize
the first foreign ambassador--”

“Perhaps! I rather like Whitehall, however. Old Rowlie has taken rather
a fancy to me,” said the boy speaking with the same easy familiarity
of his majesty as he would of a lap-dog. “And what is better, so has
Mistress Stewart--so much so, that Heaven forefend the king should
become jealous. This, however, is strictly entre nous, and not to be
spoken of on any terms.”

“Your secret shall be preserved at the risk of my life,” said Sir
Norman, laying his hand on the left side of his doublet; “and in return,
may I ask if you have any relatives living--any sisters for instance?”

“I see! you have a suspicion that the lady in white may be a sister of
mine. Well, you may set your mind at rest on that point--for if she is,
it is news to me, as I never saw her in my life before tonight. Is she a
particular friend of yours, Sir Norman?”

“Never you mind that, my dear boy; but take my advice, and don't trouble
yourself looking for her; for, most assuredly, if you find her, I shall
break your head!”

“Much obliged,” said Hubert, touching his cap, “but nevertheless, I
shall risk it. She had the plague, though, when she jumped into the
river, and perhaps the best place to find her would be the pest-house. I
shall try.”

“Go, and Heaven speed you! Yonder is the way to it, and my road lies
here. Good night, master Hubert.”

“Good night, Sir Norman,” responded the page, bowing airily; “and if I
do not find the lady to-night, most assuredly I shall do so to-morrow.”

Turning along a road leading to the pest-house, and laughing as he
went, the boy disappeared. Fearing lest the page should follow him, and
thereby discover a clue to Leoline's abode, Sir Norman turned into a
street some distance from the house, and waited in the shadow until he
was out of sight. Then he came forth, and, full of impatience to get
back to the ruin, hurried on to where he had left his horse. He was
still in the care of the watchman, whom he repaid for his trouble; and
as he sprang on his back, he glanced up at the windows of Leoline's
house. It was all buried in profound darkness but that one window from
wh

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