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?”