“No such thing. I have owned nothing. As I told you before, you are

welcome to put what construction you please on my actions.”

“Sir Norman Kingsley, this is nonsensical equivocation! You own you came

to hear and see?”

“Well!”

“Well, hearing and seeing constitute spying, do they not? Therefore, you

are a spy.”

“I confess it looks like it. What next?”

“Need you ask What is the fate of all spies?”

“No matter what they are in other places, I am pretty certain what they

are here!”

“And that is?”

“A room in black, and a chop with an axe--the Earl of Gloucester's fate,

in a word!”

“You have said it! Have you any reason why such a sentence should not be

pronounced on you?”

“None; pronounce it as soon as you like.”

“With the greatest pleasure!” said the duke, who had been scrawling on

another ominous roll of vellum, and now passed it to the dwarf. “I never

knew anyone it gave me more delight to condemn. Will your highness pass

that to her majesty for signature, and pronounce his sentence.”

His highness, with a grin of most exquisite delight, did as directed;

and Sir Norman looked steadfastly at the queen as she received it. One

of the gauzy nymphs presented it to her, kneeling, and she took it with

a look half bored, half impatient, and lightly scrawled her autograph.

The long, dark lashes did not lift; no change passed over the calm, cold

face, as icily placid as a frozen lake in the moonlight--evidently the

life or death of the stranger was less than nothing to her. To him she,

too, was as nothing, or nearly so; but yet there was a sharp jarring

pain at his heart, as he saw that fair hand, that had saved him once, so

coolly sign his death warrant now. But there was little time left for to

watch her; for, as she pushed it impatiently away, and relapsed into her

former proud listlessness, the dwarf got up with one of his death's-head

grins, and began:

“Sir Norman Kingsley, you have been tried and convicted as a spy, and

the paid-hireling of the vindictive and narrow-minded Charles; and the

sentence of this court, over which I have the honor to preside, is, that

you be taken hence immediately to the place of execution, and there lose

your head by the axe!”

“And a mighty small loss it will be!” remarked the duke to himself, in a

sort of parenthesis, as the dwarf concluded his pleasant observation

by thrusting himself forward across the table, after his rather

discomposing fashion, and breaking out into one of his diabolical

laughter-claps.

The queen, who had been sitting passive, and looking as if she were in

spirit a thousand miles away, now started up with sharp suddenness, and

favored his highness with one of her fieriest fiery glances.

“Will your highness just permit somebody else to have a voice in that

matter? How many more trials are to come on tonight?”

“Only one,” replied the duke, glancing over a little roll which he held;

“Lady Castlemaine's, for poisoning the Duchess of Sutherland.”

“And what is my Lady Castlemaine's fate to be?”

“The same as our friend's here, in all probability,” nodding easily, not

to say playfully, at Sir Norman.

“And how long will her trial last?”

“Half an hour, or thereabouts. There are some secrets in the matter that

have to be investigated, and which will require some time.”

“Then let all the trials be over first, and all the beheadings take

place together. We don't choose to take the trouble of traveling to the

Black Chamber just to see his head chopped off, and then have the same

journey to undergo half an hour after, for a similar purpose. Call Lady

Castlemaine, and let this prisoner be taken to one of the dungeons, and

there remain until the time for execution. Guards, do you hear? Take him

away!”

The dwarf's face grew black as a thunder-cloud, and he jumped to his

feet and confronted the queen with a look so intensely ugly that no

other earthly face could have assumed it. But that lady merely met it

with one of cold disdain and aversion, and, keeping her dark bright eyes

fixed chillingly upon him, waved her white hand, in her imperious way,

to the guards. Those warlike gentlemen knew better than to disobey her

most gracious majesty when she happened to be, like Mrs. Joe Gargary, on

the “rampage,” which, if her flashing eye and a certain expression about

her handsome mouth spoke the truth, must have been twenty hours out of

the twenty-four. As the soldiers approached to lead him away, Sir Norman

tried to catch her eye; but in vain, for she kept those brilliant optics

most unwinkingly fixed on the dwarf's face.

“Call Lady Castlemaine,” commanded the duke, as Sir Norman with his

guards passed through the doorway leading to the Black Chamber. “Your

highness, I presume, is ready to attend to her case.”

“Before I attend to hers or any one else's case,” said the dwarf,

hopping over the table like an overgrown toad, “I will first see that

this guest of ours is properly taken care, of, and does not leave us

without the ceremony of saying good-bye.”

With which, he seized one of the wax candles, and trotted, with rather

unprincely haste, after Sir Norman and his conductors. The young knight

had been led down the same long passage he had walked through before;

but instead of entering the chamber of horrors, they passed through the

centre arch, and found themselves in another long, vaulted corridor,

dimly lit by the glow of the outer one. It was as cold and dismal a

place, Sir Norman thought, as he had ever seen; and it had an odor damp

and earthy, and of the grave. It had two or three great, ponderous doors

on either side, fastened with huge iron bolts; and before one of these

his conductors paused. Just as they did so, the glimmer of the dwarf's

taper pierced the gloom, and the next moment, smiling from ear to ear,

he was by their side.

“Down with the bars!” he cried. “This is the one for him--the strongest

and safest of them all. Now, my dashing courtier, you will see how

tenderly your little friend provides for his favorites!”

If Sir Norman made any reply, it was drowned in the rattle and clank

of the massive bars, and is hopelessly lost to posterity. The huge door

swung back; but nothing was visible but a sort of black velvet pall, and

effluvia much stronger than sweet. Involuntarily he recoiled as one of

the guards made a motion for him to enter.

“I Shove him in! shove him in!” shrieked the dwarf, who was getting so

excited with glee that he was dancing about in a sort of jig of delight.

“In with him--in with him! If he won't go peaceably, kick him in

head-foremost!”

“I would strongly advise them not to try it,” said Sir Norman, as he

stepped into the blackness, “if they have any regard for their health!

It does not make much difference after all, my little friend, whether

I spend the next half-hour in the inky blackness of this place or the

blood-red grandeur of your royal court. My little friend, until we meet

again, permit me to say, au revoir.”

The dwarf laughed in his pleasant way, and pushed the candle cautiously

inside the door.

“Good-by for a little while, my dear young sir, and while the headsmen

is sharpening his axe, I'll leave you to think about your little friend.

Lest you should lack amusement, I'll leave you a light to contemplate

your apartment; and for fear you may get lonesome, these two gentlemen

will stand outside your door, with their swords drawn, till I come back.

Good-by, my dear young sir--good-bye!”

The dungeon-door swung to with a tremendous bang Sir Norman was barred

in his prison to await his doom and the dwarf was skipping along the

passage with sprightliness, laughing as he went.

CHAPTER XIII. ESCAPED.

Probably not one of you; my dear friends, who glance graciously over

this, was ever shut up in a dungeon under expectation of bearing the

unpleasant operation of decapitation within half an hour. It never

happened to myself, either, that I can recollect; so, of course, you

or I personally can form no idea what the sensation may be like; but

in this particular case, tradition saith Sir Norman Kingsley's state

of mind was decidedly depressed. As the door shut violently, he leaned

against it, and listened to his jailers place the great bars into their

sockets, and felt he was shut in, in the dreariest, darkest, dismalest,

disagreeablest place that it had ever been his misfortune to enter.

He thought of Leoline, and reflected that in all probability she was

sleeping the sleep of the just--perhaps dreaming of him, and little

knowing that his head was to be cut off in half an hour.

In course of time morning would come--it was not likely the ordinary

course of nature would be cut off because he was; and Leoline would get

up and dress herself, and looking a thousand times prettier than ever,

stand at the window and wait for him. Ah! she might wait--much good

would it do her; about that time he would probably be--where? It was a

rather uncomfortable question, but easily answered, and depressed him to

a very desponding degree indeed.

He thought of Ormiston and La Masque--no doubt they were billing and

cooing in most approved fashion just then, and never thinking of him;

though, but for La Masque and his own folly, he might have been half

married by this time. He thought of Count L'Estrange and Master Hubert,

and become firmly convinced, if one did not find Leoline the other

would; and each being equally bad, it was about a toss up in agony which

got her.

He thought of Queen Miranda, and of the adage, “put no trust in

princes,” and sighed deeply as he reflected what a bad sign of human

nature it was--more particularly such handsome human nature--that she

could, figuratively speaking, pat him on the back one moment, and kick

him to the scaffold the next. He thought, dejectedly, what a fool he

was ever to have come back; or even having come back, not to have

taken greater pains to stay up aloft, instead of pitching abruptly

head-foremost into such a select company without an invitation. He

thought, too, what a cold, damp, unwholesome chamber they had lodged him

in, and how apt he would be to have a bad attack of ague and miasmatic

fever, if they would only let him live long enough to enjoy those

blessings. And this having brought him to the end of his melancholy

meditation, he began to reflect how he could best amuse himself in

the interim, before quitting this vale of tears. The candle was still

blinking feebly on the floor, shedding tears of wax in its feeble

prostration, and it suddenly reminded him of the dwarf's advice to

examine his dark bower of repose. So he picked it up and snuffed it with

his fingers, and held it aloof, much as Robinson Crusoe held the brand

in the dark cavern with the dead goat.

In the velvet pall of blackness before alluded to, its small, wan ray

pierced but a few inches, and only made the darkness visible. But Sir

Norman groped his way to the wall, which he found to be all over green

and noisome slime, and broken out into a cold, clammy perspiration, as

though it were at its last gasp. By the aid of his friendly light, for

which he was really much obliged--a fact which, had his little friend

known, he would not have left it--he managed to make the circuit of his

prison, which he found rather spacious, and by no means uninhabited; for

the walls and floor were covered with fat, black beetles, whole

families of which interesting specimens of the insect-world he crunched

remorselessly under foot, and massacred at every step; and great,

depraved-looking rats, with flashing eyes and sinister-teeth, who made

frantic dives and rushes at him, and bit at his jack-boots with fierce,

fury. These small quadrupeds reminded him forcibly of the dwarf,

especially in the region of the eyes and the general expression of

countenance; and he began to reflect that if the dwarf's soul (supposing

him to possess such an article as that, which seemed open to debate)

passed after death into the body of any other animal, it would certainly

be into that of a rat.

He had just come to this conclusion, and was applying the flame of the

candle to the nose of an inquisitive beetle, when it struck him he

heard voices in altercation outside his door. One, clear, ringing, and

imperious, yet withal feminine, was certainly not heard for the first

time; and the subdued and respectful voices that answered, were those of

his guards.

After a moment, he heard the sound of the withdrawing bolts, and his

heart beat fast. Surely, his half-hour had not already expired; and

if it had, would she be the person to conduct him to death? The door

opened; a puff of wind extinguished his candle, but not until he had

caught the glimmer of jewels, the shining of gold, and the flutter of

long, black hair; and then some one came in. The door was closed; the

bolts shot back!--and he was alone with Miranda, the queen.

There was no trouble about recognising her, for she carried in her hand

a small lamp, which she held up between them, that its rays might fall

directly on both faces. Each was rather white, perhaps, and one

heart was going faster than it had ever gone before, and that one was

decidedly not the queen's. She was dressed exactly as he had seen her,

in purple and ermine, in jewels and gold; and strangely out of place she

looked there, in her splendid dress and splendid beauty, among the black

beetles and rats. Her face might have been a dead, blank wall, or cut

out of cold, white stone, for all it expressed; and as she lightly held

up her rich robes in one hand, and in the other bore the light, the

dark, shining eyes were fixed on his face, and were as barren of

interest, eagerness, compassion, tenderness, or any other feeling, as

the shining, black glass ones of a wax doll. So they stood looking at

each other for some ten seconds or so, and then, still looking full at

him, Miranda spoke, and her voice was as clear and emotionless as her

eyes,

“Well, Sir Norman Kingsley, I have come to see you before you die.”

“Madame,” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “you are kind.”

“Am I? Perhaps you forget I signed your death-warrant.”

“Probably it would have been at the risk of your own life to refuse?”

“Nothing of the kind! Not one of them would hurt a hair of my head if I

refused to sign fifty death-warrants! Now, am I kind?”

“Very likely it would have amounted to the same thing in the end--they

would kill me whether you signed it or not; so what does it matter?”

“You are mistaken! They would not kill you; at least, not tonight, if

I had not signed it. They would have let you live until their next

meeting, which will be this night week; and I would have incurred

neither risk nor danger by refusing.”

Sir Norman glanced round the dungeon and shrugged his shoulders.

“I do not know that that prospect is much more inviting than the present

one. Even death is preferable to a week's imprisonment in a place like

this.”

“But in the meantime you might have escaped.”

“Madame, look at this stone floor, that stone roof, these solid walls,

that barred and massive door; reflect that I am some forty feet under

ground--cannot perform impossibilities, and then ask yourself how?”

“Sir Norman, have you ever heard of good fairies visiting brave knights

and setting them free?”

Sir Norman smiled.

“I am afraid the good fairies and brave knights went the way of

all flesh with King Arthur's round table; and even if they were in

existence, none of them would take the trouble to limp down so far to

save such an unlucky dog as I.”

“Then you forgive me for what I have done?”

“Your majesty, I have nothing to forgive.”

“Bah!” she said, scornfully. “Do not mock me here. My majesty, forsooth!

you have but fifteen minutes to live in this world, Sir Norman; and

if you have no better way of spending them, I will tell you a strange

story--my own, and all about this place.”

“Madame, there is nothing in the world I would like so much to hear.”

“You shall hear it, then, and it may beguile the last slow moments of

time before you go out into eternity.”

She set her lamp down on the floor among the rats and beetles, and stood

watching the small, red flame a moment with a gloomy, downcast eye; and

Sir Norman, gazing on the beautiful darkening face, so like and yet so

unlike Leoline, stood eagerly awaiting what was to come.

Meantime, the half-hour sped. In the crimson court the last trial was

over, and Lady Castlemaine, a slender little beauty of eighteen stood

condemned to die.

“Now for our other prisoner!” exclaimed the dwarf with sprightly

animation; “and while I go to the cell, you, fair ladies, and you my

lord, will seek the black chamber and await our coming there.”

Ordering one of his attendants to precede him with a light, the dwarf

skipped jauntily away, to gloat over his victim. He reached the dungeon

door, which the guards, with some trepidation in their countenance, as

they thought of what his highness would say when he found her majesty

locked in with the prisoner, threw open.

“Come forth, Sir Norman Kingsley!” shouted the dwarf, rushing in. “Come

forth and meet your doom!”

But no Sir Norman Kingsley obeyed the pleasant invitation, and a dull

echo from the darkness alone answered him. There was a lamp burning on

the floor, and near it lay a form, shining and specked with white in the

gloom. He made for it between fear and fury, but there was something

red and slippery on the ground, in which his foot slipped, and he

fell. Simultaneously there was a wild cry from the two guards and the

attendant, that was echoed by a perfect screech of rage from the dwarf,

as on looking down he beheld Queen Miranda lying on the floor in the

pool of blood, and apparently quite dead, and Sir Norman Kingsley gone.

CHAPTER XIV. IN THE DUNGEON.

The interim between Miranda setting down her lamp on the dungeon floor

among the rats and the beetles, and the dwarf's finding her bleeding

and senseless, was not more than twenty minutes, but a great deal may be

done in twenty minutes judiciously expended, and most decidedly it was

so in the present case. Both rats and beetles paused to contemplate the

flickering lamp, and Miranda paused to contemplate them, and Sir

Norman paused to contemplate her, for an instant or so in silence. Her

marvelous resemblance to Leoline, in all but one thing, struck him more

and more--there was the same beautiful transparent colorless complexion,

the same light, straight, graceful figure, the same small oval delicate

features; the same profuse waves of shining dark hair, the same large,

dark, brilliant eyes; the same, little, rosy pretty mouth, like one of

Correggio's smiling angels. The one thing wanting was expression--in

Leoline's face there was a kind of childlike simplicity; a look half

shy, half fearless, half solemn in her wonderful eyes; but in this,

her prototype, there was nothing shy or solemn; all was cold, hard, and

glittering, and the brooding eyes were full of a dull, dusky fire. She

looked as hard and cold and bitter, as she was beautiful; and Sir Norman

began to perplex himself inwardly as to what had brought her here.

Surely not sympathy, for nothing wearing that face of stone, could

even know the meaning of such a word. While he looked at her, half

wonderingly, half pityingly, half tenderly--a queer word that last,

but the feeling was caused by her resemblance to Leoline--she had been

moodily watching an old gray rat, the patriarch of his tribe, who was

making toward her in short runs, stopping between each one to stare at

her, out of his unpleasantly bright eyes. Suddenly, Miranda shut

her teeth, clenched her hands, and with a sort of fierce suppressed

ejaculation, lifted her shining foot and planted it full on the rat's

head. So sudden, so fierce, and so strong, was the stamp, that the

rat was crushed flat, and uttered a sharp and indignant squeal of

expostulation, while Sir Norman looked at her, thinking she had lost her

wits. Still she ground it down with a fiercer and stronger force every

second; and with her eyes still fixed upon it, and blazing with reddish

black flame, she said, in a sort of fiery hiss:

“Look at it! The ugly, loathsome thing! Did you ever see anything look

more like him?”

There must have been some mysterious rapport between them, for he

understood at once to whom the solitary personal pronoun referred.

“Certainly, in the general expression of countenance there is rather a

marked resemblance, especially in the region of the teeth and eyes.”

“Except that the rat's eyes are a thousand times handsomer,” she broke

in, with a derisive laugh.

“But as to shape,” resumed Sir Norman, eyeing the excited and

astonished little animal, still shrilly squealing, with the glance of

a connoisseur, “I confess I do not see it! The rat is straight and

shapely--which his highness, with all reverence be it said--is not, but

rather the reverse, if you will not be offended at me for saying so.”

She broke into a short laugh that had a hard, metallic ring, and then

her face darkened, blackened, and she ground the foot that crushed the

rat fiercer, and with a sort of passionate vindictiveness, as if she had

the head of the dwarf under her heel.

“I hate him! I hate him!” she said, through her clenched teeth and

though her tone was scarcely above a whisper, it was so terrible in its

fiery earnestness that Sir Norman thrilled with repulsion. “Yes, I hate

him with all my heart and soul, and I wish to heaven I had him here,

like this rat, to trample to death under my feet!”

Not knowing very well what reply to make to this strong and heartfelt

speech, which rather shocked his notions of female propriety, Sir Norman

stood silent, and looked reflectively after the rat, which, when she

permitted it at last to go free, limped away with an ineffably sneaking

and crest-fallen expression on his hitherto animated features. She

watched it, too, with a gloomy eye, and when it crawled into the

darkness and was gone, she looked up with a face so dark and moody that

it was almost sullen.

“Yes, I hate him!” she repeated, with a fierce moodiness that was quite

dreadful, “yes, I hate him! and I would kill him, like that rat, if I

could! He has been the curse of my whole life; he has made life cursed

to me; and his heart's blood shall be shed for it some day yet, I

swear!”

With all her beauty there was something so horrible in the look she

wore, that Sir Norman involuntarily recoiled from her. Her sharp eyes

noticed it, and both grew red and fiery as two devouring flames.

“Ah! you, too, shrink from me, would you? You, too, recoil in horror!

Ingrate! And I have come to save your life!”

“Madame, I recoil not from you, but from that which is tempting you

to utter words like these. I have no reason to love him of whom you

speak--you, perhaps, have even less; but I would not have his blood,

shed in murder, on my head, for ten thousand worlds! Pardon me, but you

do not mean what you say.”

“Do I not? That remains to be seen! I would not call it murder plunging

a knife into the heart of a demon incarnate like that, and I would have

done it long ago and he knows it, too, if I had the chance!”

“What has he done to you to make you do bitter against him?”

“Bitter! Oh, that word is poor and pitiful to express what I feel when

his name is mentioned. Loathing and hatred come a little nearer the

mark, but even they are weak to express the utter--the--” She stopped in

a sort of white passion that choked her very words.

“They told me he was your husband,” insinuated Sir Norman, unutterably

repelled.

“Did they?” she said, with a cold sneer, “he is, too--at least as far as

church and state can make him; but I am no more his wife at heart than

I am Satan's. Truly of the two I should prefer the latter, for then I

should be wedded to something grand--a fallen angel; as it is, I have

the honor to be wife to a devil who never was an angel?”

At this shocking statement Sir Norman looked helplessly round, as if

for relief; and Miranda, after a moment's silence, broke into another

mirthless laugh.

“Of all the pictures of ugliness you ever saw or heard of, Sir Norman

Kingsley, do tell me if there ever was one of them half so repulsive or

disgusting as that thing?”

“Really,” said Sir Norman, in a subdued tone, “he is not the most

prepossessing little man in the world; but, madame, you do look and

speak in a manner quite dreadful. Do let me prevail on you to calm

yourself, and tell me your story, as you promised.”

“Calm myself!” repeated the gentle lady, in a tone half snappish, half

harsh, “do you think I am made of iron, to tell you my story and be

calm? I hate him! I hate him! I would kill him if I could: and if you,

Sir Norman, are half the man I take you to be, you will rid the world of

the horrible monster before morning dawns!”

“My dear lady, you seem to forget that the case is reversed, and that he

is going to rid the world of me,” said Sir Norman, with a sigh.

“No, not if you do as I tell you; and when I have told you how much

cause I have to abhor him, you will agree with me that killing him will

be no murder! Oh, if there is One above who rules this world, and will

judge us all, why, why does He permit such monsters to live?”

“Because He is more merciful than his creatures,” replied Sir Norman,

with calm reverence,--“though His avenging hand is heavy on this doomed

city. But, madame, time is on the wing, and the headsman will be here

before your story is told.”

“Ah, that story! How am I to tell it, I wonder, two words will comprise

it all--sin and misery--misery and sin! For, buried alive here, as I

am--buried alive, as I've always been--I know what both words mean;

they have been branded on heart and brain in letters of fire. And that

horrible monstrosity is the cause of all--that loathsome, misshapen,

hideous abortion has banned and cursed my whole life! He is my

first recollection. As far back as I can look through the dim eye of

childhood's years, that horrible face, that gnarled and twisted trunk,

those devilish eyes glare at me like the eyes and face of a wild beast.

As memory grows stronger and more vivid, I can see that same face

still--the dwarf! the dwarf! the dwarf!--Satan's true representative on

earth, darkening and blighting ever passing year. I do not know where we

lived, but I imagine it to have been one of the vilest and lowest dens

in London, though the rooms I occupied were, for that matter, decent and

orderly enough. Those rooms the daylight never entered, the windows

were boarded up within, and fastened by shutters without, so that of the

world beyond I was as ignorant as a child of two hours old. I saw but

two human faces, his”--she seemed to hate him too much even to pronounce

his name--“and his housekeeper's, a creature almost as vile as himself,

and who is now a servant here; and with this precious pair to guard me

I grew up to be fifteen years old. My outer life consisted of eating,

sleeping, reading--for the wretch taught me to read--playing with my

dogs and birds, and listening to old Margery's stories. But there was

an inward life, fierce and strong, as it was rank and morbid, lived and

brooded over alone, when Margery and her master fancied me sleeping in

idiotic content. How were they to know that the creature they had reared

and made ever had a thought of her own--ever wondered who she was, where

she came from, what she was destined to be, and what lay in the great

world beyond? The crooked little monster made a great mistake in

teaching me to read, he should have known that books sow seed that grow

up and flourish tall and green, till they become giants in strength.

I knew enough to be certain there was a bright and glad world without,

from which they shut me in and debarred me; and I knew enough to hate

them both for it, with a strong and heartfelt hatred, only second to

what I feel now.”

She stopped for a moment, and fixed her dark, gloomy eyes on the

swarming floor, and shook off, with out a shudder, the hideous things

that crawled over her rich dress. She had scarcely looked at Sir Norman

since she began to speak, but he had done enough looking for them both,

never once taking his eyes from the handsome darkening face. He thought

how strangely like her story was to Leoline's--both shut in and isolated

from the outer world. Verily, destiny seemed to have woven the woof and

warp of their fates wonderfully together, for their lives were as

much the same as their faces. Miranda, having shook off her crawling

acquaintances, watched them glancing along the foul floor in the

darkness, and went moodily on.

“It was three years ago when I was fifteen years old, as I told you,

that a change took place in my life. Up to that time, that miserable

dwarf was what people would call my guardian, and did not trouble me

much with his heavenly company. He was a great deal from our house,

sometimes absent for weeks together; and I remember I used to envy the

freedom with which he came and went, far more than I ever wondered where

he spent his precious time. I did not know then that he belonged to

the honorable profession of highwaymen, with variations of coining when

travelers were few and money scarce. He was then, and is still, at

the head of a formidable gang, over whom he wields most desperate

authority--as perhaps you have noticed during the brief and pleasant

period of your acquaintance.”

“Really, madam, it struck me that your authority over them was much more

despotic than his,” said Sir Norman, in all sincerity, feeling called

upon to give the--well, I'd rather not repeat the word, which is

generally spelled with a d and a dash--his due.

“No thanks to him for that! He would make me a slave now, as he did

then, if he dared, but he has found that, poor, trodden worm as I was, I

had life enough left to turn and sting.”

“Which you do with a vengeance! Oh! you're a Tartar!” remarked Sir

Norman to himself. “The saints forefend that Leoline should be like

you in temper, as she is in history and face; for if she is, my life

promises to be a pleasant one.”

“This rascally crew of cut-throats, whom his villainous highness

headed,” said Miranda, “were an almost immense number then, being

divided in three bodies--London cut-purses, Hounslow Heath highwaymen,

and assistant-coiners, but all owning him for their lord and master.

He told me all this himself, one day when, in an after-dinner and most

gracious mood, he made a boasting display of his wealth and greatness;

told me I was growing up very pretty indeed, and that I was shortly to

be raised to the honor and dignity, and bliss of being his wife.

“I fancy I must have had a very vague idea of what that one small word

meant, and was besides in an unusually contented and peaceful state

of mind, or I should, undoubtedly, have raised one of his cut-glass

decanters and smashed in his head with it. I know how I should receive

such an assertion from him now, but I think I took it then with a

resignation, he must have found mighty edifying; and when he went on

to tell me that all this richness and greatness were to be shared by

me when that celestial time came, I think I rather liked the idea than

otherwise. The horrible creature seemed to have woke up that day, for

the first time, and all of a sudden, to a conviction that I was in a

fair way to become a woman, and rather a handsome one, and that he had

better make sure of me before any accident interfered to take me from

him. Full of this laudable notion, he became a daily visitor of mine

from thenceforth, and made the discovery, simultaneously with myself,

that the oftener he came the less favor he found in my sight. I had,

before, tacitly disliked him, and shrank with a natural repulsion

from his dreadful ugliness; but now, from negative dislike, I grew to

positive hate. The utter loathing and abhorrence I have had for him ever

since, began then--I grew dimly and intuitively conscious of what he

would make me, and shrank from my fate with a vague horror not to be

told in words. I became strong in my fearful dread of it. I told him I

detested, abhorred, loathed, hated him; that he might keep his riches,

greatness, and ungainly self for those who wanted him; they were

temptations too weak to move me.

“Of course, there was raving, and storming, threatening, terrible looks

and denunciations, and I quailed and shrank like a coward, but was

obstinate still. Then as a dernier resort, he tried another bribe--the

glorious one of liberty, the one he knew would conquer me, and it did.

He promised me freedom--if I married him, I might go out into the

great unknown world, fetterless and free; and I, O! fool that I was!

consented. Not that my object was to stay with him one instant longer

her my prison doors were opened; no, I was not quite so besotted as

that--once out, and the little demon might look for me with last year's

partridges. Of course, those demoniac eyes read my heart like an

open book; and when I pronounced the fatal 'yes,' he laughed in that

delightful way of his own, which will probably be the last thing you

will hear when you lay your head under the axe.

“I don't know who the clergyman who married us was; but he was a

clergyman: there can be no doubt about that. It was three days after,

and for the first time in my fifteen years of life, I stood in sunshine,

and daylight, and open air. We drove to the cathedral--for it was in St.

Paul's the sacrilege was committed. I never could have walked there,

I was so stunned, and giddy, and bewildered. I never thought of the

marriage--I could think of nothing but the bright, crashing, sun-shiny

world without, till I was led up before the clergyman, with much the

air, I suppose, of one walking in her sleep. He was a very young man, I

remember, and looked from the dwarf to me, and from me to the dwarf,

in a great state of fear and uncertainty, but evidently not daring to

refuse. Margery and one of his gang were our only attendants, and there,

in God's temple, the deed was done, and I was made the miserable thing I

am to-day.”

The suppressed passion, rising and throbbing like a white flame in her

face and eyes, made her stop for a moment, breathing hard. Looking up

she met Sir Norman's gaze, and as if there was something in its quiet,

pitying tenderness that mesmerized her into calm, she steadily and

rapidly went on.

“I awoke to a new life, after that; but not to one of freedom and

happiness. I was as closely, even more closely, guarded than ever; and I

found, when too late, that I had bartered myself, soul and body, for an

empty promise. The only difference was, that I saw more new faces; for

the dwarf began to bring his confederates and subordinates to the house,

and would have me dressed up and displayed to them, with a demoniac

pride that revolted me beyond everything else, if I were a painted

puppet or an overgrown wax doll. Most of the precious crew of scoundrels

had wives of their own and these began to be brought with them of

an evening; and then, what with dancing, and music, and cards, and

feasting, we had quite a carnival of it till morning.

“I liked this part of the business excessively well at first, and I was

flattered and fooled to the top of my bent, and made from the first, the

reigning belle and queen. There was more policy in that than admiration,

I fancy; for the dwarf was all-powerful among them and dreaded

accordingly, and I was the dwarf's pet and plaything, and all-powerful

with him. The hideous creature had a most hideous passion for me then,

and I could wind him round my finger as easily as Delilah and Samson;

and by his command and their universal consent, the mimicry of royalty

was begun, and I was made mistress and sovereign head, even over the

dwarf himself. It was a queer whim; but that crooked slug was always

taking such odd notions into his head, which nobody there dared laugh

at. The band were bound together by a terrible oath, women and all; but

they had to take another oath then, that of allegiance to me.

“It quite turned my brain at first; and my eyes were so dazzled by the

pitiful glistening of the pageant, the sham splendor of the sham court,

and the half-mocking, half-serious homage paid me, that I could see

nothing beyond the shining surface, and the blackness, and corruption,

and horror within, were altogether lost upon me. This feeling increased

when, as months and months went by, they were added to the mock peers of

the Midnight Court, real nobles from that of St. Charles. I did not know

then that they were ruined gamesters, vicious profligates, and desperate

broken-down roués, who would have gone to pandemonium itself, nightly,

for the mad license and lawless excesses they could indulge in here to

their heart's content. But I got tired of it all, after a time: my

eyes began slowly to open, and my heart--at least, what little of that

article I ever had--turned sick with horror within me at what I had

done. The awful things I saw, the fearful deeds that were perpetrated,

would curdle your very blood with horror, were I to relate them. You

have seen a specimen yourself, in the cold-blooded murder of that wretch

half an hour ago; and his is not the only life crying for vengeance on

these men. The slightest violation of their oath was punished, and

the doom of traitors and informers was instant death, whether male or

female. The sham trials and executions always took place in presence

of the whole court, to strike a salutary terror into them, and never

occurred but once a week, when the whole band regularly met. My power

continued undiminished; for they knew either the dwarf or I must be

supreme; and though the queen was bad, the prince was worse. The said

prince would willingly have pulled me down from my eminence, and have

mounted it himself; but that he was probably restrained by a feeling

that law-makers should not be law-breakers, and that, if he set the

example, there would be no end to the insubordination and rebellion that

would follow.”

“Were you living here or in London then?” inquired Sir Norman, taking

an advantage of a pause, employed by Miranda in shaking off the crawling

beetles.

“Oh, in London! We did not come here until the outbreak of the

plague--that frightened them, especially the female portion, and they

held a scared meeting, and resolved that we should take up our quarters

somewhere else. This place being old and ruined, and deserted and with

all sorts of evil rumors hanging about it, was hit upon; and secretly,

by night, these mouldering old vaults were fitted up, and the goods and

chattels of the royal court removed. And here I, too, was brought by

night under the dwarf's own eye; for he well knew I would have risked

a thousand plagues to escape from him. And here I have been ever since,

and here the weekly revels are still held, and may for years to come,

unless something is done to-night to prevent it.

“The night before these weekly anniversaries they all gather; but during

the rest of the time I am alone with Margery and the dwarf, and have

learned more secrets about this place than they dream of. For the

rest, there is little need of explanation--the dwarf and his crew have

industriously circulated the rumor that it is haunted; and some of those

white figures you saw with me, and who, by the way, are the daughters of

these robbers, have been shown on the broken battlements, as if to put

the fact beyond doubt.

“Now, Sir Norman, that is all--you have heard my whole history as far

as I know it; and nothing remains but to tell you what you must see

yourself, that I am mad for revenge, and must have it, and you must help

me!”

Her eyes were shining with the fierce red fire he had seen in them

before, and the white face wore a look so deadly and diabolical that,

with all its beauty, it was absolutely repulsive. He took a step from

her--for in each of those gleaming eyes sat a devil.

“You must help me!” she persisted. “You--you, Sir Norman! For many a day

I have been waiting for a chance like this, and until now I have waited

in vain. Alone, I want physical strength to kill him, and I dare not

trust any one else. No one was ever cast among us before as you have

been; and now, condemned to die, you must be desperate, and desperate

men will do desperate things. Fate, Destiny, Providence--whatever you

like--has thrown you in my way, and help me you must and shall!”

“Madame, madame I what are you saying? How can I help you?”

“There is but one way--this!”

She held up in the pale ray of the lamp, something she drew from the

folds of her dress, that glistened blue, and bright, and steelly in the

gloom.

“A dagger!” he exclaimed, with a shudder, and a recoil. “Madame, are you

talking of murder?”

“I told you!” she said, through her closed teeth, and with her eyes

flaming like fire, “that ridding the earth of that fiend incarnate would

be a good deed, and no murder! I would do it myself if I could take

him off his guard; but he never is that with me; and then my arm is not

strong enough to reach his black heart through all that mass of

brawn, and blood, and muscle. No, Sir Norman, Doom has allotted it to

you--obey, and I swear to you, you shall go free; refuse--and in ten

minutes your head will roll under the executioner's axe!”

“Better that than the freedom you offer! Madame, I cannot murder!”

“Coward!” she passionately cried; “you fear to do it, and yet you have

but a life to lose, and that is lost to you now!”

Sir Norman raised his head; and even in the darkness she saw the haughty

flush that crimsoned his face.

“I fear no man living; but, madame, I fear One who is higher than man!”

“But you will die if you refuse; and I repeat, again and again, there is

no risk. These guards will not let you out; but there are more ways of

leaving a room than through the door, and I can lead you up behind the

tapestry to where he is standing, and you can stab him through the back,

and escape with me! Quick, quick, there is no time to lose!”

“I cannot do it!” he said, resolutely, drawing back and folding his

arms. “In short, I will not do it!”

There was such a terrible look in the beautiful eyes, that he half

expected to see her spring at him like a wild cat, and bury the dagger

in his own breast. But the rule of life works by contraries: expect

a blow and you will get a kiss, look for an embrace, and you will be

startled by a kick. When the virago spoke, her voice was calm, compared

with what it had been before, even mild.

“You refuse! Well, a willful man must have him way; and since you are

so qualmish about a little bloodletting, we must try another plan. If I

release you--for short as the time is, I can do it--will you promise me

to go direct to the king this very night, and inform him of all you've

seen and heard here?”

She looked at him with an eagerness that was almost fierce; and in spite

of her steady voice, there was something throbbing and quivering, deadly

and terrible, in her upturned face. The form she looked at was erect

and immovable, the eyes were quietly resolved, the mouth half-pityingly,

half-sadly smiling.

“Are you aware, dear lady, what the result of such a step would be?”

“Death!” she said, coldly.

“Death, transportation, or life-long imprisonment to them all--misery

and disgrace to many a noble house; for some I saw there were once

friends of mine, with families I honor and respect. Could I bring the

dwarf and his attendant imps to Tyburn, and treat them to a hempen

cravat, I would do it without remorse--though the notion of being

informer, even then, would not be very pleasant; but as it is, I cannot

be the death of one without ruining all, and as I told you, some of

those were once my friends. No, madame, I cannot do it. I have but once

to die and I prefer death here, to purchasing life at such a price.”

There was a short silence, during which they gazed into each other's

eyes ominously, and one was about as colorless as the other.

“You refuse?” she coldly said.

“I must! But if you can save my life, as you say, why not do it, and fly

with me? You will find me the truest and most grateful of friends, while

life remains.”

“You are very kind; but I want no friendship, Sir Norman--nothing but

revenge! As to escaping, I could have done that any time since we came

here, for I have found out a secret means of exit from each of these

vaults, that they know nothing of. But I have staid to see him dead at

my feet--if not by my hand, at least by my command; and since you

will not do it, I will make the attempt myself. Farewell, Sir Norman

Kingsley; before many minutes you will be a corpse, and your blood be

upon yourself!”

She gave him a glance as coldly fierce as her dagger's glance, and

turned to go, when he stepped hastily forward, and interposed:

“Miranda--Miranda--you are crazed! Stop and tell me what you intend to

do.”

“What you feared to attempt,” she haughtily replied; “Sheathe this

dagger in his demon heart!”

“Miranda, give me the dagger. You must not, you shall not, commit such a

crime!”

“Shall not?” she uttered scornfully. “And who are you that dares to

speak to me like this? Stand aside, coward, and let me pass!”

“Pardon me, but I cannot, while you hold that dagger. Give it to me, and

you shall go free; but while you hold it with this intention, for your

own sake, I will detain you till some one comes.”

She uttered a low, fierce cry, and struck at him with it, but he caught

her hand, and with sudden force snatched it from her. In doing so he was

obliged to hold it with its point toward her, and struggling for it in a

sort of frenzy, as he raised the hand that held it, she slipped forward

and it was driven half-way to the hilt in her side. There was a low,

grasping cry--a sudden clasping of both hands over her heart, a sway, a

reel, and she fell headlong prostrate on the loathsome floor.

Sir Norman stood paralyzed. She half raised herself on her elbow,

drew the dagger from the wound, and a great jet of blood shot up and

crimsoned her hands. She did not faint--there seemed to be a deathless

energy within her that chained life strongly in its place--she only

pressed both hands hard over the wound, and looked mournfully and

reproachfully up in his face. Those beautiful, sad, solemn eyes, void of

everything savage and fierce, were truly Leoline's eyes now.

Through all his first shock of horror, another thing dawned on his

mind; he had looked on this scene before. It was the second view in La

Masque's caldron, and but one remained to be verified.

The next instant, he was down on his knees in a paroxysm of grief and

despair.

“What have I done? what have I done?” was his cry.

“Listen!” she said, faintly raising one finger. “Do you hear that?”

Distant steps were echoing along the passage. Yes; he heard them, and

knew what they were.

“They are coming to lead you to death!” she said, with some of her

old fire; “but I will baffle them yet. Take that lamp--go to the wall

yonder, and in that corner, near the floor, you will see a small iron

ring. Pull it--it does not require much force--and you will find an

opening leading through another vault; at the end there is a broken

flight of stairs, mount them, and you will find yourself in the same

place from which you fell. Fly, fly! There is not a second to lose!”

“How can I fly? how can I leave you dying here?”

“I am not dying!” she wildly cried, lifting both hands from the wound to

push him away, while the blood flowed over the floor. “But we will both

die if you stay. Go-go-go!”

The footsteps had paused at his door. The bolts were beginning to be

withdrawn. He lifted the lamp, flew across his prison, found the ring,

and took a pull at it with desperate strength. Part of what appeared

to be the solid wall drew out, disclosing an aperture through which he

could just squeeze sideways. Quick as thought he was through, forgetting

the lamp in his haste. The portion of the wall slid noiselessly back,

just as the prison door was thrown open, and the dwarfs voice was heard,

socially inviting him, like Mrs. Bond's ducks, to come and be killed.

Some people talk of darkness so palpable that it may be felt, and if

ever any one was qualified to tell from experience what it felt like,

Sir Norman was in that precise condition at that precise period.

He groped his way through the blind blackness along what seemed an

interminable distance, and stumbled, at last, over the broken stairs at

the end. With some difficult, and at the serious risk of his jugular,

he mounted them, and found himself, as Miranda had stated, in a place

he knew very well. Once here he allowed no grass to grow under his feet;

and, in five minutes after, to his great delight, he found himself where

he had never hoped to be again--in the serene moonlight and the open

air, fetterless and free.

His horse was still where he had left him, and in a twinkling he was on

his back, and dashing away to the city, to love--to Leoline!

CHAPTER XV. LEOLINE'S VISITORS.

If things were done right--but they are not and, never will be, while

this whirligig world of mistakes spins round, and all Adam's children,

to the end of the chapter, will continue sinning to-day and repenting

to-morrow, falling the next and bewailing it the day after. If Leoline

had gone to bed directly, like a good, dutiful little girl, as Sir

Norman ordered her, she would have saved herself a good deal of trouble

and tears; but Leoline and sleep were destined to shake hands and turn

their backs on each other that night. It was time for all honest folks

to be in bed, and the dark-eyed beauty knew it too, but she had no

notion of going, nevertheless. She stood in the centre of the room,

where he had left her, with a spot like a scarlet roseberry on either

cheek; a soft half-smile on the perfect mouth, and a light unexpressibly

tender and dreamy, in those artesian wells of beauty--her eyes. Most

young girls of green and tender years, suffering from “Love's young

dream,” and that sort of thing, have just that soft, shy, brooding look,

whenever their thoughts happen to turn to their particular beloved; and

there are few eyes so ugly that it does not beautify, even should they

be as cross as two sticks. You should have seen Leoline standing in

the centre of her pretty room, with her bright rose-satin glancing and

glittering, and flowing over rug and mat; with her black waving hair

clustering and curling like shining floss silk; with a rich white

shimmer of pearls on the pale smooth forehead and large beautiful arms.

She did look irresistibly bewitching beyond doubt; and it was just as

well for Sir Norman's peace of mind that he did not see her, for he was

bad enough without that. So she stood thinking tenderly of him for a

half-hour or so, quite undisturbed by the storm; and how strange it was

that she had risen up that very morning expecting to be one man's bride,

and that she should rise up the next, expecting to be another's. She

could not realize it at all; and with a little sigh--half pleasure, half

presentiment--she walked to the window, drew the curtain, and looked

out at the night. All was peaceful and serene; the moon was full to

overflowing, and a great deal of extra light ran over the brim; quite a

quantity of stars were out, and were winking pleasantly down at the dark

little planet below, that went round, and round, with grim stoicism, and

paid no attention to anybody's business but its own. She saw the heaps

of black, charred ashes that the rush of rain had quenched; she saw the

still and empty street; the frowning row of gloomy houses opposite, and

the man on guard before one of them. She had watched that man all day,

thinking, with a sick shudder, of the plague-stricken prisoners he

guarded, and reading its piteous inscription, “Lord have mercy on us!”

till the words seemed branded on her brain. While she looked now, an

upper window was opened, a night-cap was thrust out and a voice from its

cavernous depths hailed the guard.

“Robert! I say, Robert!”

“Well!” said Robert, looking up.

“Master and missus be gone at last, and the rest won't live till

morning.”

“Won't they?” said Robert, phlegmatically; “what a pity! Get 'em ready,

and I'll stop the dead-cart when it comes round.”

Just as he spoke, the well-known rattle of wheels, the loud ringing of

the bell, and the monotonous cry of the driver, “Bring out your dead!

bring out your dead!” echoed on the pale night's silence; and the

pest-cart came rumbling and jolting along with its load of death. The

watchman hailed the driver, according to promise, and they entered the

house together, brought out one long, white figure, and then another,

and threw them on top of the ghastly heap.

“We'll have three more for you in on hour of so--don't forget to come

round,” suggested the watchman.

“All right!” said the driver, as he took his place, whipped his horse,

rang his bell, and jogged along nonchalantly to the plague-pit.

Sick at heart, Leoline dropped the curtain, and turned round to see

somebody else standing at her elbow. She had been quite alone when she

looked out; she was alone no longer; there had been no noise, yet some

one had entered, and was standing beside her. A tall figure, all in

black, with its sweeping velvet robes spangled with stars of golden

rubies, a perfect figure of incomparable grace and beauty. It had worn a

cloak that had dropped lightly from its shoulders, and lay on the floor

and the long hair streamed in darkness over shoulder and waist. The

face was masked, the form stood erect and perfectly motionless, and the

scream of surprise and consternation that arose to Leoline's lips died

out in wordless terror. Her noiseless visitor perceived it, and touching

her arm lightly with one little white hand, said in her sweetest and

most exquisite of tones:

“My child, do not tremble so, and do not look so deathly white. You know

me, do you not?”

“You are La Masque!” said Leoline trembling with nervous dread.

“I am, and no stranger to you; though perhaps you think so. Is it

your habit every night to look out of your window in full dress until

morning?”

“How did you enter?” asked Leoline, her curiosity overcoming for a

moment even her fear.

“Through the door. Not a difficult thing, either, if you leave it wide

open every night, as it is this.”

“Was it open?” said Leoline, in dismay. “I never knew it.”

“Ah! then it was not you who went out last. Who was it?”

“It was--was--” Leoline's cheeks were scarlet; “it was a friend!”

“A somewhat late hour for one's friends to visit,” said La Masque,

sarcastically; “and you should learn the precaution of seeing them to

the door and fastening it after them.”

“Rest assured, I shall do so for the future,” said Leoline, with a

look that would have reminded Sir Norman of Miranda had he seen it.

“I scarcely expected the honor of any more visits, particularly from

strangers to-night.”

“Civil, that! Will you ask me to sit down, or am I to consider myself an

unseasonable intruder, and depart?”

“Madame, will you do me the honor to be seated. The hour, as you say, is

somewhat unseasonable, and you will oblige me by letting me know to what

I am indebted for the pleasure of this visit, as quickly as possible.”

There was something quite dignified about Mistress Leoline as she swept

rustling past La Masque, sank into the pillowy depths of her lounge, and

motioned her visitor to a seat with a slight and graceful wave of her

hand. Not but that in her secret heart she was a good deal frightened,

for something under her pink satin corsage was going pit-a-pat at a

wonderful rate; but she thought that betraying such a feeling would not

be the thing. Perhaps the tall, dark figure saw it, and smiled behind

her mask; but outwardly she only leaned lightly against the back of the

chair, and glanced discreetly at the door.

“Are you sure we are quite alone?”

“Quite:”

“Because,” said La Masque, in her low, silvery tones, “what I have come

to say is not for the ears of any third person living:”

“We are entirely alone, madame,” replied Leoline, opening her black eyes

very wide. “Prudence is gone, and I do not know when she will be back.”

“Prudence will never come back,” said La Masque, quietly.

“Madame!”

“My dear, do not look so shocked--it is not her fault. You know she

deserted you for fear of the plague.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, that did not save her; nay, it even brought on what she dreaded

so much. Your nurse is plague-stricken, my dear, and lies ill unto death

in the pest-house in Finsbury Fields.”

“Oh, dreadful!” exclaimed Leoline, while every drop of blood fled from

her face. “My poor, poor old nurse!”

“Your poor, poor old nurse left you without much tenderness when she

thought you dying of the same disease,” said La Masque, quietly.

“Oh, that is nothing. The suddenness, the shock drove her to it. My

poor, dear Prudence.”

“Well, you can do nothing for her now,” said La Masque, in a tone of

slight impatience. “Prudence is beyond all human aid, and so--let her

rest in peace. You were carried to the plague-pit yourself, for dead,

were you not?”

“Yes,” answered the pale lips, while she shivered all over at the

recollection.

“And was saved by--by whom were you saved, my dear?”

“By two gentlemen.”

“Oh, I know that; what were their names?”

“One was Mr. Ormiston, the other was,” hesitating and blushing vividly,

“Sir Norman Kingsley.”

La Masque leaned across her chair, and laid one dainty finger lightly on

the girl's hot cheek.

“And for which is that blush, Leoline?”

“Madame, was it only to ask me questions you came here?” said Leoline,

drawing proudly back, though the hot red spot grew hotter and redder;

“if so, you will excuse my declining to answer any more.”

“Child, child!” said La Masque, in a tone so strangely sad that it

touched Leoline, “do not be angry with me. It is no idle curiosity that

sent me here at this hour to ask impertinent questions, but a claim that

I have upon you, stronger than that of any one else in the world.”

Leoline's beautiful eyes opened wider yet.

“A claim upon me! How? Why? I do not understand.”

“All in good time. Will you tell me something of your past history,

Leoline?”

“Madame Masque, I have no history to tell. All my life I have lived

alone with Prudence; that in the whole of it in nine words.”

La Masque half laughed.

“Short, sharp, and decisive. Had you never father or mother?”

“There is a slight probability I may have had at some past period,” said

Leoline, sighing; “but none that I ever knew.”

“Why does not Prudence tell you?”

“Prudence is only my nurse, and says she has nothing to tell. My parents

died when I was an infant, and left me in her care--that is her story.”

“A likely one enough, and yet I see by your face that you doubt it.”

“I do doubt it! There are a thousand little outward things that make me

fancy it is false, and an inward voice that assures me it is so.”

“Then let me tell you that inward voice tells falsehoods, for I know

that your father and mother are both dead these fourteen years!”

Leoline's great black eyes were fixed on her face with a look so wild

and eager, that La Masque laid her hand lightly and soothingly on her

shoulder.

“Don't look at me with such a spectral face! What is there so

extraordinary in all I have said?”

“You said you knew my father and mother.”

“No such thing! I said I knew they were dead, but the other fact is true

also; I did know them when living!”

“Madame, who are you? Who were they?”

“I? Oh, I am La Masque, the sorceress, and they--they were Leoline's

father and mother!” and again La Masque slightly laughed.

“You mock me, madame!” cried Leoline, passionately. “You are cruel--you

are heartless! If you know anything, in Heaven's name tell me--if not,

go and leave me in peace!”

“Thank you! I shall do that presently; and as to the other--of course I

shall tell you; what else do you suppose I have come for to-night? Look

here! Do you see this?”

She drew out from some hidden pocket in her dress a small and

beautifully-wrought casket of ivory and silver, with straps and clasps

of silver, and a tiny key of the same.

“Well!” asked Leoline, looking from it to her, with the blank air of one

utterly bewildered,

“In this casket, my dear, there is a roll of papers, closely written,

which you are to read as soon as I leave you. Those papers contain your

whole history--do you understand?”

She was looking so white, and staring so hard and so hopelessly, that

there was need of the question. She took the casket and gazed at it with

a perplexed air.

“My child, have your thoughts gone wool-gathering? Do you not comprehend

what I have said to you! Your whole history is hid in that box?”

“I know!” said Leoline, slowly, and with her eyes again riveted to the

black mask. “But; madame, who are you?”

“Have I not told you? What a pretty inquisitor it is! I am La

Masque--your friend, now; something more soon, as you will see when you

read what I have spoken of. Do not ask me how I have come by it--you

will read all about it there. I did not know that I would give it to you

to-night, but I have a strange foreboding that it is destined to be my

last on earth. And, Leoline my child, before I leave you, let me hear

you say you will not hate me when you read what is there.”

“What have you done to me? Why should I hate you?”

“Ah! you will find that all out soon enough. Do content me, Leoline--let

me hear you say; `La Masque, whatever you've done to me, however you

have wronged me, I will forgive you!' Can you say that?”

Leoline repeated it simply, like a little child. La Masque took her

hand, held it between both her own, leaned over and looked earnestly in

her face.

“My little Leoline! my beautiful rosebud! May Heaven bless you and grant

you a long and happy life with--shall I say it, Leoline?”

“Please--no!” whispered Leoline, shyly.

La Masque softly patted the little tremulous hand.

“We are both saying the name now in our hearts, my dear, so it is little

matter whether our lips repeat it or not. He is worthy, of you, Leoline,

and your life will be a happy one by his side; but there is another.”

She paused and lowered her voice. “When have you seen Count L'Estrange?”

“Not since yesterday, madame.”

“Beware of him! Do you know who he is, Leoline?”

“I know nothing of him but his name.”

“Then do not seek to know,” said La Masque, emphatically. “For it is a

secret you would tremble to hear. And now I must leave you. Come with me

to the door, and fasten it as soon as I go out, lest you should forget

it altogether.”

Leoline, with a dazed expression, thrust the precious little casket into

the bosom of her dress, and taking up the lamp, preceded her visitor

down stairs. At the door they paused, and La Masque, with her hand on

her arm, repeated, in a low, earnest voice,

“Leoline, beware of Count L'Estrange, and become Lady Kingsley as soon

as you can.”

“I will hear that name to-morrow!” thought Leoline, with a glad little

thrill at her heart, as La Masque flitted out into the moonlight.

Leoline closed and locked the door, driving the bolts into their

sockets, and making all secure. “I defy any one to get in again

tonight!” she said, smiling at her own dexterity; and lamp in hand, she

ran lightly up stairs to read the long unsolved riddle.

So eager was she, that she had crossed the room, laid the lamp on the

table, and sat down before it, ere she became aware that she was not

alone. Some one was leaning against the mantel, his arm on it, and his

eyes do her, gazing with an air of incomparable coolness and ease. It

was a man this time--something more than a man,--a count, and Count

L'Estrange, at that!

Leoline sprang to her feet with a wild scream, a cry full of terror,

amaze, and superstitious dread; and the count raised his band with a

self-possessed smile.

“Pardon, fair Leoline, if I intrude! But have I not a right to come at

all hours and visit my bride?”

“Leoline is no bride of yours!” retorted that young lady, passionately,

her indignation overpowering both fear and surprise. “And, what is more,

never will be! Now, sir!”

“So my little bird of paradise can fire up, I see! As to your being my

bride, that remains to be seen. You promised to be tonight, you know!”

“Then I'll recall that promise. I have changed my mind.”

“Well, that's not very astonishing; it is but the privilege of your

sex! Nevertheless, I'm afraid I must insist on your becoming Countess

L'Estrange, and that immediately!”

“Never, sir! I will die first!”

“Oh, no! We could not spare such a bright little beauty out of this ugly

world! You will live, and live for me!”

“Sir!” cried Leoline, white with passion, and her black eyes blazing

with a fire that would have killed him, could fiery glances slay! “I

do not know how you have entered here; but I do know, if you are a

gentleman, you will leave me instantly! Go sir! I never wish to see you

again!”

“But when I wish to see you so much, my darling Leoline,” said the

count, with provoking indifference, “what does a little reluctance on

your part signify? Get your hood and mantle, my love--my horse awaits

us without--and let us fly where neither plague nor mortal man will

interrupt our nuptials!”

“Will no one take this man away?” she cried, looking helplessly round,

and wringing her hands.

“Certainly not, my dear--not even Sir Norman Kingsley! George, I am

afraid this pretty little vixen will not go peaceably; you had better

come in!”

With a smile on his face, he took a step toward her. Shrieking wildly,

she darted across the room, and made for the door, just as somebody else

was entering it. The next instant, a shawl was thrown over her head,

her cries smothered in it, and she was lifted in a pair of strong arms,

carried down stairs, and out into the night.

CHAPTER XVI. THE THIRD VISION.

Presentiments are strange things. From the first moment Sir Norman

entered the city, and his thoughts had been able to leave Miranda and

find themselves wholly on Leoline, a heavy foreboding of evil to her

had oppressed him. Some danger, he was sure, had befallen her during his

absence--how could it be otherwise with the Earl of Rochester and Count

L'Estrange both on her track? Perhaps, by this time, one or other had

found her, and alone and unaided she had been an easy victim, and was

now borne beyond his reach forever. The thought goaded him and his horse

almost to distraction; for the moment it struck him, he struck spurs

into his horse, making that unoffending animal jump spasmodically, like

one of those prancing steeds Miss Bonheur is fond of depicting. Through

the streets he flew at a frantic rate, growing more excited and full

of apprehension the nearer he came to old London Bridge; and calling

himself a select litany of hard names inwardly, for having left the dear

little thing at all.

“If I find her safe and well,” thought Sir Norman, emphatically,

“nothing short of an earthquake or dying of the plague will ever induce

me to leave her again, until she is Lady Kingsley, and in the old manor

of Devonshire. What a fool, idiot, and ninny I must have been, to have

left her as I did, knowing those two sleuth-hounds were in full chase!

What are all the Mirandas and midnight queens to me, if Leoline is

lost?”

That last question was addressed to the elements in general; and as they

disdained reply, he cantered on furiously, till the old house by the

river was reached. It was the third time that night he had paused to

contemplate it, and each time with very different feelings; first, from

simple curiosity; second, in an ecstasy of delight, and third and last,

in an agony of apprehension. All around was peaceful and still; moon

and stars sailed serenely through a sky of silver and snow; a faint

cool breeze floated up from the river and fanned his hot and fevered

forehead; the whole city lay wrapped in stillness as profound and

deathlike as the fabled one of the marble prince in the Eastern

tale--nothing living moved abroad, but the lonely night-guard keeping

their dreary vigils before the plague-stricken houses, and the

ever-present, ever-busy pest-cart, with its mournful bell and dreadful

cry.

As far as Sir Norman could see, no other human being but himself and

the solitary watchman, so often mentioned, were visible. Even he could

scarcely be said to be present; for, though leaning against the house

with his halberd on his shoulder, he was sound asleep at his post, and

far away in the land of dreams. It was the second night of his watch;

and with a good conscience and a sound digestion, there is no earthly

anguish short of the toothache, strong enough to keep a man awake two

nights in succession. So sound were his balmy slumbers in his airy

chamber, that not even the loud clatter of Sir Norman's horse's hoofs

proved strong enough to arouse him; and that young gentleman, after

glancing at him, made up his mind to try to find out for himself before

arousing him to seek information.

Securing his horse, he looked up at the house with wistful eyes, and saw

that the solitary light still burned in her chamber. It struck him

now how very imprudent it was to keep that lamp burning; for if Count

L'Estrange saw it, it was all up with Leoline--and there was even

more to be dreaded from him than from the earl. How was he to find

out whether that illuminated chamber had a tenant or not? Certainly,

standing there staring till doomsday would not do it; and there seemed

but two ways, that of entering the house at once or arousing the man.

But the man was sleeping so soundly that it seemed a pity to awake

him for a trifle; and, after all, there could be no great harm or

indiscretion in his entering to see if his bride was safe. Probably

Leoline was asleep, and would know nothing about it; or, even were she

wide awake, and watchful, she was altogether too sensible a girl to

be displeased at his anxiety about her. If she were still awake, and

waiting for day-dawn, he resolved to remain with her and keep her from

feeling lonesome until that time came--if she were asleep, he would

steal out softly again, and keep guard at her door until morning.

Full of these praiseworthy resolutions, he tried the handle of the

door, half expecting to find it locked, and himself obliged to effect

an entrance through the window; but no, it yielded to his touch, and

he went in. Hall and staircase were intensely dark, but he knew his

way without a pilot this time, and steered clear of all shoals and

quicksands, through the hall and up the stairs.

The door of the lighted room--Leoline's room--lay wide open, and he

paused on the threshold to reconnoitre. He had gone softly for fear of

startling her, and now, with the same tender caution, he glanced

round the room. The lamp burned on the dainty dressing table, where

undisturbed lay jewels, perfume bottles and other knickknacks. The

cithern lay unmolested on the couch, the rich curtains were drawn;

everything was as he had left it last--everything, but the pretty pink

figure, with drooping eyes, and pearls in the waves of her rich, black

hair. He looked round for the things she had worn, hoping she had taken

them off and retired to rest, but they were not to be seen; and with a

cold sinking of the heart, he went noiselessly across the room, and

to the bed. It was empty, and showed no trace of having been otherwise

since he and the pest-cart driver had borne from it the apparently

lifeless form of Leoline.

Yes, she was gone; and Sir Norman turned for a moment so sick with utter

dread, that he leaned against one of the tall carved posts, and hated

himself for having left her with a heartlessness that his worst enemy

could not have surpassed. Then aroused into new and spasmodic energy by

the exigency of the case, he seized the lamp, and going out to the hall,

made the house ring from basement to attic with her name. No reply, but

that hollow, melancholy echo that sounds so lugubriously through empty

houses, was returned; and he jumped down stairs with an impetuous rush,

flinging back every door in the hall below with a crash, and flying

wildly from room to room. In solemn grim repose they lay; but none of

them held the bright figure in rose-satin he sought. And he left them in

despair, and went back to her chamber again.

“Leoline! Leoline! Leoline!” he called, while he rushed impetuously up

stairs, and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber; but Leoline answered

not--perhaps never would answer more! Even “hoping against hope,” he had

to give up the chase at last--no Leoline did that house hold; and with

this conviction despairingly impressed on his mind, Sir Norman Kingsley

covered his face with his hands, and uttered a dismal groan.

Yet, forlorn as was the case, he groaned but once, “only that and

nothing more;” there was no time for such small luxuries as groaning and

tearing his hair, and boiling over with wrath and vengeance against the

human race generally, and those two diabolical specimens of it, the

Earl of Rochester and Count L'Estrange, particularly. He plunged head

foremost down stairs, and out of the door. There he was impetuously

brought up all standing; for somebody stood before it, gazing up at

the gloomy front with as much earnestness as he had done himself, and

against this individual he rushed recklessly with a shock that nearly

sent the pair of them over into the street.

“Sacr-r-re!” cried a shrill voice, in tones of indignant remonstrance.

“What do you mean, monsieur? Are you drunk, or crazy, that you come

running head foremost into peaceable citizens, and throwing them heels

uppermost on the king's highway! Stand off, sir! And think yourself

lucky that I don't run you through with my dirk for such an insult!”

At the first sound of the outraged treble tones, Sir Norman had started

back and glared upon the speaker with much the same expression of

countenance as an incensed tiger. The orator of the spirited address had

stooped to pick up his plumed cap, and recover his centre of gravity,

which was considerably knocked out of place by the unexpected collision,

and held forth with very flashing eyes, and altogether too angry to

recognize his auditor. Sir Norman waited until he had done, and then

springing at him, grabbed him by the collar.

“You young hound!” he exclaimed, fairly lifting him off his feet with

one hand, and shaking him as if he would have wriggled him out of hose

and doublet. “You infernal young jackanapes! I'll run you through in

less than two minutes, if you don't tell me where you have taken her.”

The astonishment, not to say consternation, of Master Hubert for that

small young gentleman and no other it was--on thus having his ideas thus

shaken out of him, was unbounded, and held him perfectly speechless,

while Sir Norman glared at him and shook him in a way that would have

instantaneously killed him if his looks were lightning. The boy had

recognized his aggressor, and after his first galvanic shock, struggled

like a little hero to free himself, and at last succeeded by an artful

spring.

“Sir Norman Kingsley,” he cried, keeping a safe yard or two of pavement

between him and that infuriated young knight, “have you gone mad, or

what, is Heaven's name, is the meaning of all this?”

“It means,” exclaimed Sir Norman, drawing his sword, and flourishing it

within an inch of the boy's curly head,--“that you'll be a dead page in

less than half a minute, unless you tell me immediately where she has

been taken to.”

“Where who has been taken to?” inquired Hubert, opening his bright

and indignant black eyes in a way that reminded Sir Norman forcibly of

Leoline. “Pardon, monsieur, I don't understand at all.”

“You young villain! Do you mean to stand up there and tell me to my face

that you have not searched for her, and found her, and have carried her

off?”

“Why, do you mean the lady we were talking of, that was saved from the

river?” asked Hubert, a new light dawning upon him.

“Do I mean the lady we were talking of?” repeated Sir Norman, with

another furious flourish of his sword. “Yes, I do mean the lady we were

talking of; and what's more--I mean to pin you where you stand, against

that wall, unless you tell me, instantly, where she has been taken.”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed the boy, raising his hands with an earnestness

there was no mistaking, “I do assure you, upon my honor, that I know

nothing of the lady whatever; that I have not found her; that I have

never set eyes on her since the earl saved her from the river.”

The earnest tone of truth would, in itself, almost have convinced Sir

Norman, but it was not that, that made him drop his sword so suddenly.

The pale, startled face; the dark, solemn eyes, were so exactly like

Leoline's, that they thrilled him through and through, and almost made

him believe, for a moment, he was talking to Leoline herself.

“Are you--are you sure you are not Leoline?” he inquired, almost

convinced, for an instant, by the marvelous resemblance, that it was

really so.

“I? Positively, Sir Norman, I cannot understand this at all, unless you

wish to enjoy yourself at my expense.”

“Look here, Master Hubert!” said Sir Norman with a sudden change of look

and tone. “If you do not understand, I shall just tell you in a word or

two how matters are, and then let me hear you clear yourself. You know

the lady we were talking about, that Lord Rochester picked up afloat,

and sent you in search of?”

“Yes--yes.”

“Well,” went on Sir Norman, with a sort of grim stoicism. “After leaving

you, I started on a little expedition of my own, two miles from the

city, from which expedition I returned ten minutes ago. When I left, the

lady was secure and safe in this house; when I came back, she was gone.

You were in search of her--had told me yourself you were determined on

finding her, and having her carried off; and now, my youthful friend,

put this and that together,” with a momentary returning glare, “and see

what it amounts to!”

“It amounts to this:” retorted his youthful friend, stoutly, “that

I know nothing whatever about it. You may make out a case of strong

circumstantial evidence against me; but if the lady has been carried

off, I have had no hand in it.”

Again Sir Norman was staggered by the frank, bold gaze and truthful

voice, but still the string was in a tangle somewhere.

“And where have you been ever since?” he began severely, and with the

air of a lawyer about to go into a rigid cross-examination.

“Searching for her,” was the prompt reply.

“Where?”

“Through the streets; in the pest-houses, and at the plague-pit.”

“How did you find out she lived here?”

“I did not find it out. When I became convinced she was in none of the

places I have mentioned, I gave up the search in despair, for to-night,

and was returning to his lordship to report my ill success.”

“Why, then, were you standing in front of her house, gaping at it

with all the eyes in your head, as if it were the eighth wonder of the

world?”

“Monsieur has not the most courteous way of asking questions, that I

ever heard of; but I have no particular objection to answer him. It

struck me that, as Mr. Ormiston brought the lady up this way, and as

I saw you and he haunting this place so much to-night, I thought her

residence was somewhere here, and I paused to look at the house as I

went along. In fact, I intended to ask old sleepy-head, over there, for

further particulars, before I left the neighborhood, had not you, Sir

Norman, run bolt into me, and knocked every idea clean out of my head.”

“And you are sure you are not Leoline?” said Sir Norman, suspiciously.

“To the best of my belief, Sir Norman, I am not,” replied Hubert,

reflectively.

“Well, it is all very strange, and very aggravating,” said Sir Norman,

sighing, and sheathing his sword. “She is gone, at all events; no doubt

about that--and if you have not carried her off, somebody else has.”

“Perhaps she has gone herself,” insinuated Hubert.

“Bah! Gone herself!” said Sir Norman, scornfully. “The idea is beneath

contempt: I tell you, Master Fine-feathers, the lady and I were to be

married bright and early to-morrow morning, and leave this disgusting

city for Devonshire. Do you suppose, then, she would run out in the

small hours of the morning, and go prancing about the streets, or

eloping with herself?”

“Why, of course, Sir Norman, I can't take it upon myself to answer

positively; but, to use the mildest phrase, I must say the lady seems

decidedly eccentric, and capable of doing very queer things. I hope,

however, you believe me; for I earnestly assure you, I never laid eyes

on her but that once.”

“I believe you,” said Sir Norman, with another profound and

broken-hearted sigh, “and I'm only too sure she has been abducted by

that consummate scoundrel and treacherous villain, Count L'Estrange.”

“Count who?” said Hubert, with a quick start, and a look of intense

curiosity. “What was the name?”

“L'Estrange--a scoundrel of the deepest dye! Perhaps you know him?”

“No,” replied Hubert, with a queer, half musing smile, “no; but I have a

notion I have heard the name. Was he a rival of yours?”

“I should think so! He was to have been married to the lady this very

night!”

“He was, eh! And what prevented the ceremony?”

“She took the plague!” said Sir Norman, strange to say, not at all

offended at the boy's familiarity. “And would have been thrown into the

plague-pit but for me. And when she recovered she accepted me and cast

him off!”

“A quick exchange! The lady's heart must be most flexible, or unusually

large, to be able to hold so many at once.”

“It never held him!” said Sir Norman, frowning; “she was forced into

the marriage by her mercenary friends. Oh! if I had him here, wouldn't I

make him wish the highwaymen had shot him through the head, and done for

him, before I would let him go!”

“What is he like--this Count L'Estrange?” said Hubert, carelessly.

“Like the black-hearted traitor and villain he is!” replied Sir Norman,

with more energy than truth; for he had caught but passing glimpses

of the count's features, and those showed him they were decidedly

prepossessing; “and he slinks along like a coward and an abductor as

he is, in a slouched hat and shadowy cloak. Oh! if I had him here!”

repeated Sir Norman, with vivacity; “wouldn't I--”

“Yes, of course you would,” interposed Hubert, “and serve him right,

too! Have you made any inquiries about the matter--for instance, of our

friend sleeping the sleep of the just, across there?”

“No--why?”

“Why, it seems to me, if she's been carried off before he fell asleep,

he has probably heard or seen something of it; and I think it would not

be a bad plan to step over and inquire.”

“Well, we can try,” said Sir Norman, with a despairing face; “but I

know it will end in disappointment and vexation of spirit, like all the

rest!”

With which dismal view of things, he crossed the street side by side

with his jaunty young friend. The watchman was still enjoying the balmy,

and snoring in short, sharp snorts, when Master Hubert remorselessly

caught him by the shoulder, and began a series of shakes and pokes, and

digs, and “hallos!” while Sir Norman stood near and contemplated the

scene with a pensive eye. At last while undergoing a severe course of

this treatment the watchman was induced to open his eyes on this mortal

life, and transfix the two beholders with, an intensely vacant and blank

share.

“Hey?” he inquired, helplessly. “What was you a saying of, gentlemen?

What is it?”

“We weren't a saying of anything as yet,” returned Hubert; “but we mean

to, shortly. Are you quite sure you are wide awake?”

“What do you want?” was the cross question, given by way of answer.

“What do you come bothering me for at such a rate, all night, I want to

know?”

“Keep civil, friend, we wear swords,” said Hubert, touching, with

dignity, the hilt of the little dagger he carried; “we only want to ask

you a few questions. First, do you see that house over yonder?”

“Oh! I see it!” said the man gruffly; “I am not blind!”

“Well who was the last person you saw come out of that house?”

“I don't know who they was!” still more gruffly. “I ain't got the

pleasure of their acquaintance!”

“Did you see a young lady come out of it lately?”

“Did I see a young lady?” burst out the watchman, in a high key of

aggrieved expostulation. “How many more times this blessed night am I

to be asked about that young lady. First and foremost, there comes two

young men, which this here is one of them, and they bring out the young

lady and have her hauled away in the dead-cart; then comes along another

and wants to know all the particulars, and by the time he gets properly

away, somebody else comes and brings her back like a drowned rat. Then

all sorts of people goes in and out, and I get tired looking at them,

and then fall asleep, and before I've been in that condition about a

minute, you two come punching me and waken me up to ask questions about

her! I wish that young lady was in Jerico--I do!” said the watchman,

with a smothered growl.

“Come, come, my man!” said Hubert, slapping him soothingly on the

shoulder. “Don't be savage, if you can help it! This gentleman has a

gold coin in some of his pockets, I believe, and it will fall to you if

you keep quiet and answer decently. Tell me how many have been in that

house since the young lady was brought back like a drowned rat?”

“How many?” said the man, meditating, with his eyes fixed on Sir

Norman's garments, and he, perceiving that, immediately gave him

the promised coin to refresh his memory, which it did with amazing

quickness. “How many--oh--let me see; there was the young man that

brought her in, and left her there, and came out again, and went away.

By-and-by, he came back with another, which I think this as gave me the

money is him. After a little, they came out, first the other one, then

this one, and went off; and the next that went in was a tall woman in

black, with a mask on, and right behind her there came two men; the

woman in the mask came out after a while; and about ten minutes after,

the two men followed, and one of them carried something in his arms,

that didn't look unlike a lady with her head in a shawl. Anything wrong,

sir?” as Sir Norman gave a violent start and caught Hubert by the arm.

“Nothing! Where did they carry her to? What did they do with her? Go on!

go on!”

“Well,” said the watchman, eyeing the speaker curiously, “I'm going to.

They went along, down to the river, both of them, and I saw a boat shove

off, shortly after, and that something, with its head in a shawl, lying

as peaceable as a lamb, with one of the two beside it. That's all--I

went asleep about then, till you two were shaking me and waking me up.”

Sir Norman and Hubert looked at each other, one between despair and

rage, the other with a thoughtful, half-inquiring air, as if he had some

secret to tell, and was mentally questioning whether it was safe to do

so. On the whole, he seemed to come to the conclusion, that a silent

tongue maketh a wise head, and nodding and saying “Thank you!” to the

watchman, he passed his arm through Sir Norman's, and drew him back to

the door of Leoline's house.

“There is a light within,” he said, looking up at it; “how comes that?”

“I found the lamp burning, when I returned, and everything undisturbed.

They must have entered noiselessly, and carried her off without a

struggle,” replied Sir Norman, with a sort of groan.

“Have you searched the house--searched it well?”

“Thoroughly--from top to bottom!”

“It seems to me there ought to be some trace. Will you come back with me

and look again?”

“It is no use; but there is nothing else I can do; so come along!”

They entered the house, and Sir Norman led the page direct to Leoline's

room, where the light was.

“I left her here when I went away, and here the lamp was burning when I

came back: so it must have been from this room she was taken.”

Hubert was gazing slowly and critically round, taking note of

everything. Something glistened and flashed on the floor, under the

mantel, and he went over and picked it up.

“What have you there?” asked Sir Norman in surprise; for the boy had

started so suddenly, and flushed so violently, that it might have

astonished any one.

“Only a shoe-buckle--a gentleman's--do you recognize it?”

Though he spoke in his usual careless way, and half-hummed the air of

one of Lord Rochester's love songs, he watched him keenly as he examined

it. It was a diamond buckle, exquisitely set, and of great beauty and

value; but Sir Norman knew nothing of it.

“There are initials upon it--see there!” said Hubert, pointing, and

still watching him with the same powerful glance. “The letters C. S.

That can't stand for Count L'Estrange.”

“Who then can it stand for?” inquired Sir Norman, looking at him

fixedly, and with far more penetration than the court page had given him

credit for. “I am certain you know.”

“I suspect!” said the boy, emphatically, “nothing more; and if it is

as I believe, I will bring you news of Leoline before you are two hours

older.”

“How am I to know you are not deceiving me, and will not betray her into

the power of the Earl of Rochester--if, indeed, she be not in his power

already.”

“She is not in it, and never will be through me! I feel an odd interest

in this matter, and I will be true to you, Sir Norman--though why I

should be, I really don't know. I give you my word of honor that I will

do what I can to find Leoline and restore her to you; and I have never

yet broken my word of honor to any man,” said Hubert, drawing himself

up.

“Well, I will trust you, because I cannot do anything better,” said Sir

Norman, rather dolefully; “but why not let me go with you?”

“No, no! that would never do! I must go alone, and you must trust me

implicitly. Give me your hand upon it.”

They shook hands silently, went down stairs, and stood for a moment at

the door.

“You'll find me here at any hour between this and morning,” said Sir

Norman. “Farewell now, and Heaven speed you!”

The boy waved his hand in adieu, and started off at a sharp pace. Sir

Norman turned in the opposite direction for a short walk, to cool the

fever in his blood, and think over all that had happened. As he went

slowly along, in the shadow of the houses, he suddenly tripped up over

something lying in his path, and was nearly precipitated over it.

Stooping down to examine the stumbling-block, it proved to be the rigid

body of a man, and that man was Ormiston, stark and dead, with his face

upturned to the calm night-sky.

CHAPTER XVII. THE HIDDEN FACE

When Mr. Malcolm Ormiston, with his usual good sense and penetration,

took himself off, and left Leoline and Sir Norman tete-a-tete, his

steps turned as mechanically as the needle to the North Pole toward La

Masque's house. Before it he wandered, around it he wandered, like an

uneasy ghost, lost in speculation about the hidden face, and fearfully

impatient about the flight of time. If La Masque saw him hovering aloof

and unable to tear himself away, perhaps it might touch her obdurate

heart, and cause her to shorten the dreary interval, and summon him to

her presence at once. Just then some one opened the door, and his heart

began to beat with anticipation; some one pronounced his name, and,

going over, he saw the animated bag of bones--otherwise his lady-love's

vassal and porter.

“La Masque says,” began the attenuated lackey, and Ormiston's heart

nearly jumped out of his mouth, “that she can't have anybody hanging

about her house like its shadow; and she wants you to go away, and keep

away, till the time comes she has mentioned.”

So saying the skeleton shut the door, and Ormiston's heart went down to

zero. There being nothing for it but obedience, however, he slowly and

reluctantly turned away, feeling in his bones, that if ever he came to

the bliss and ecstasy of calling La Masque Mrs. Ormiston, the gray mare

in his stable would be by long odds the better horse. Unintentionally

his steps turned to the water-side, and he descended the flight of

stairs, determined to get into a boat and watch the illumination from

the river.

Late as was the hour, the Thames seemed alive with ferries and barges,

and their numerous lights danced along the surface like fire-flies over

a marsh. A gay barge, gilded and cushioned, was going slowly past; and

as he stood directly under the lamp, he was recognized by a gentleman

within it, who leaned over and hailed him,

“Ormiston! I say, Ormiston!”

“Well, my lord,” said Ormiston, recognizing the handsome face and

animated voice of the Earl of Rochester.

“Have you any engagement for the next half-hour? If not, do me the favor

to take a seat here, and watch London in flames from the river.”

“With all my heart,” said Ormiston, running down to the water's edge,

and leaping into the boat. “With all this bustle of life around here,

one would think it were noonday instead of midnight.”

“The whole city is astir about these fires. Have you any idea they will

be successful?”

“Not the least. You know, my lord, the prediction runs, that the plague

will rage till the living are no longer able to bury the dead.”

“It will soon come to that,” said the earl shuddering slightly, “if it

continues increasing much longer as it does now daily. How do the bills

of mortality run to-day?”

“I have not heard. Hark! There goes St. Paul's tolling twelve.”

“And there goes a flash of fire--the first among many. Look, look! How

they spring up into the black darkness.”

“They will not do it long. Look at the sky, my lord.”

The earl glanced up at the midnight sky, of a dull and dingy red color,

except where black and heavy clouds were heaving like angry billows, all

dingy with smoke and streaked with bars of fiery red.

“I see! There is a storm coming, and a heavy one! Our worthy burghers

and most worshipful Lord Mayor will see their fires extinguished

shortly, and themselves sent home with wet jackets.”

“And for weeks, almost month, there has not fallen a drop of rain,”

remarked Ormiston, gravely.

“A remarkable coincidence, truly. There seems to be a fatality hanging

over this devoted city.”

“I wonder your lordship remains?”

The earl shrugged his shoulders significantly.

“It is not so easy leaving it as you think, Mr. Ormiston; but I am

to turn my back to it to-morrow for a brief period. You are aware, I

suppose, that the court leaves before daybreak for Oxford.”

“I believe I have heard something of it--how long to remain?”

“Till Charles takes it into his head to come back again,” said the earl,

familiarly, “which will probably be in a week or two. Look at that sky,

all black and scarlet; and look at those people--I scarcely thought

there were half the number left alive in London.”

“Even the sick have come out to-night,” said Ormiston. “Half the

pest-stricken in the city have left their beds, full of newborn hope.

One would think it were a carnival.”

“So it is--a carnival of death! I hope, Ormiston,” said the earl,

looking at him with a light laugh, “the pretty little white fairy we

rescued from the river is not one of the sick parading the streets.”

Ormiston looked grave.

“No, my lord, I think she is not. I left her safe and secure.”

“Who is she, Ormiston?” coaxed the earl, laughingly. “Pshaw, man! don't

make a mountain out of a mole-hill! Tell me her name!”

“Her name is Leoline.”

“What else?”

“That is just what I would like to have some one tell me. I give you my

honor, my lord, I do not know.”

The earl's face, half indignant, half incredulous, wholly curious, made

Ormiston smile.

“It is a fact, my lord. I asked her her name, and she told me Leoline--a

pretty title enough, but rather unsatisfactory.”

“How long have you known her?”

“To the best of my belief,” said Ormiston, musingly, “about four hours.”

“Nonsense!” cried the earl, energetically. “What are you telling me,

Ormiston? You said she was an old friend.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, I said no such thing. I told you she had

escaped from her friends, which was strictly true.”

“Then how the demon had you the impudence to come up and carry her off

in that style? I certainly had a better right to her than you--the right

of discovery; and I shall call upon you to deliver her up!”

“If she belonged to me I should only be too happy to oblige your

lordship,” laughed Ormiston; “but she is at present the property of Sir

Norman Kingsley, and to him you must apply.”

“Ah! His inamorata, is she? Well, I must say his taste is excellent; but

I should think you ought to know her name, since you and he are noted

for being a modern Damon and Pythias.”

“Probably I should, my lord, only Sir Norman, unfortunately, does not

know himself.”

The earl's countenance looked so utterly blank at this announcement,

that Ormiston was forced to throw in a word of explanation.

“I mean to say, my lord, that he has fallen in love with her; and,

judging from appearances, I should say his flame is not altogether

hopeless, although they have met to-night for the first time.”

“A rapid passion. Where have you left her, Ormiston?”

“In her own house, my lord,” Ormiston replied, smiling quietly to

himself.

“Where is that?”

“About a dozen yards from where I stood when you called me.”

“Who are her family?” continued the earl, who seemed possessed of a

devouring curiosity.

“She has none that I know of. I imagine Mistress Leoline is an orphan.

I know there was not a living soul but ourselves in the house I brought

her to.”

“And you left her there alone?” exclaimed the earl, half starting up, as

if about to order the boatman to row back to the landing.

Ormiston looked at his excited face with a glance full of quiet malice.

“No, my lord, not quits; Sir Norman Kingsley was with her!”

“Oh!” said the earl, smiling back with a look of chagrin. “Then he will

probably find out her name before he comes away. I wonder you could give

her up so easily to him, after all your trouble!”

“Smitten, my lord?” inquired Ormiston, maliciously.

“Hopelessly!” replied the earl, with a deep sigh. “She was a perfect

little beauty; and if I can find her, I warn Sir Norman Kingsley to take

care! I have already sent Hubert out in search of her; and, by the way,”

said the earl, with a sudden increase of animation, “what a wonderful

resemblance she bears to Hubert--I could almost swear they were one and

the same!”

“The likeness is marvelous; but I should hate to take such an oath. I

confess I am somewhat curious myself; but I stand no chance of having it

gratified before to-morrow, I suppose.”

“How those fires blaze! It is much brighter than at noon-day. Show me

the house in which Leoline lies?”.

Ormiston easily pointed it out, and showed the earl the light still

burning in her window.

“It was in that room we found her first, dead of the plague!”

“Dead of the what?” cried the earl, aghast.

“Dead of the plague! I'll tell your lordship how it was,” said Ormiston,

who forthwith commend and related the story of their finding Leoline;

of the resuscitation at the plague-pit; of the flight from Sir Norman's

house, and of the delirious plunge into the river, and miraculous cure.

“A marvelous story,” commented the earl, much interested. “And Leoline

seems to have as many lives as a cat! Who can she be--a princess in

disguise--eh, Ormiston?”

“She looks fit to be a princess, or anything else; but your lordship

knows as much about her, now, as I do.”

“You say she was dressed as a bride--how came that?”

“Simply enough. She was to be married to-night, had she not taken the

plague instead.”

“Married? Why, I thought you told me a few minutes ago she was in love

with Kingsley. It seems to me, Mr. Ormiston, your remarks are a trifle

inconsistent,” said the earl, in a tone of astonished displeasure.

“Nevertheless, they are all perfectly true. Mistress Leoline was to be

married, as I told you; but she was to marry to please her friends, and

not herself. She had been in the habit of watching Kingsley go past

her window; and the way she blushed, and went through the other little

motions, convinces me that his course of true love will ran as smooth as

this glassy river runs at present.”

“Kingsley is a lucky fellow. Will the discarded suitor have no voice in

the matter; or is he such a simpleton as to give her up at a word?”

Ormiston laughed.

“Ah! to be sure; what will the count say? And, judging from some things

I've heard, I should say he is violently in love with her.”

“Count who?” asked Rochester. “Or has he, like his ladylove, no other

name?”

“Oh, no! The name of the gentleman who was so nearly blessed for life,

and missed it, is Count L'Estrange!”

The earl had been lying listlessly back, only half intent upon his

answer, as he watched the fire; but now he sprang sharply up, and stared

Ormiston full in the face.

“Count what did you say?” was his eager question, while his eyes, more

eager than his voice, strove to read the reply before it was repeated.

“Count L'Estrange. You know him, my lord?” said Ormiston, quietly.

“Ah!” said the earl. And then such a strange meaning smile went

wandering about his face. “I have not said that! So his name is Count

L'Estrange? Well, I don't wonder now at the girl's beauty.”

The earl sank back to his former nonchalant position and fell for a

moment or two into deep musing; and then, as if the whole thing struck

him in a new and ludicrous light, he broke out into an immoderate fit of

laughter. Ormiston looked at him curiously.

“It is my turn to ask questions, now, my lord. Who is Count L'Estrange?”

“I know of no such person, Ormiston. I was thinking of something else!

Was it Leoline who told you that was her lover's name?”

“No; I heard it by mere accident from another person. I am sure, if

Leoline is not a personage in disguise, he is.”

“And why do you think so?”

“An inward conviction, my lord. So you will not tell me who he is?”

“Have I not told you I know of no such person as Count L'Estrange? You

ought to believe me. Oh, here it comes.”

This last was addressed to a great drop of rain, which splashed

heavily on his upturned face, followed by another and another in quick

succession.

“The storm is upon us,” said the earl, sitting up and wrapping his cloak

closer around him, “and I am for Whitehall. Shall we land you, Ormiston,

or take you there, too?”

“I must land,” said Ormiston. “I have a pressing engagement for the next

half-hour. Here it is, in a perfect deluge; the fires will be out in

five minutes.”

The barge touched the stairs, and Ormiston sprang out, with “Good-night”

to the earl. The rain was rushing along, now, in torrents, and he ran

upstairs and darted into an archway of the bridge, to seek the shelter.

Some one else had come there before him, in search of the same thing;

for he saw two dark figures standing within it as he entered.

“A sudden storm,” was Ormiston's salutation, “and a furious one. There

go the fires--hiss and splutter. I knew how it would be.”

“Then Saul and Mr. Ormiston are among the prophets?”

Ormiston had heard that voice before; it was associated in his mind with

a slouched hat and shadowy cloak; and by the fast-fading flicker of the

firelight, he saw that both were here. The speaker was Count L'Estrange;

the figure beside him, slender and boyish, was unknown.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said affecting ignorance. “May I

ask who you are?”

“Certainly. A gentlemen, by courtesy and the grace of God.”

“And your name?”

“Count L'Estrange, at your service.”

Ormiston lifted his cap and bowed, with a feeling somehow, that the

count was a man in authority.

“Mr. Ormiston assisted in doing a good deed, tonight, for a friend of

mine,” said the count.

“Will he add to that obligation by telling me if he has not discovered

her again, and brought her back?”

“Do you refer to the fair lady in yonder house?”

“So she is there? I thought so, George,” said the count, addressing

himself to his companion. “Yes, I refer to her, the lady you saved from

the river. You brought her there?”

“I brought her there,” replied Ormiston.

“She is there still?”

“I presume so. I have heard nothing to the contrary.”

“And alone?”

“She may be, now. Sir Norman Kingsley was with her when I left her,”

said Ormiston, administering the fact with infinite relish.

There was a moment's silence. Ormiston could not see the count's face;

but, judging from his own feelings, he fancied its expression must be

sweet. The wild rush of the storm alone broke the silence, until the

spirit again moved the count to speak.

“By what right does Sir Norman Kingsley visit her?” he inquired, in a

voice betokening not the least particle of emotion.

“By the best of rights--that of her preserver, hoping soon to be her

lover.”

There was an other brief silence, broken again by the count, in the same

composed tone:

“Since the lady holds her levee so late, I, too, must have a word

with her, when this deluge permits one to go abroad without danger of

drowning.”

“It shown symptoms of clearing off, already,” said Ormiston, who, in his

secret heart, thought it would be an excellent joke to bring the rivals

face to face in the lady's presence; “so you will not have long to

wait.”

To which observation the count replied not; and the three stood in

silence, watching the fury of the storm.

Gradually it cleared away; and as the moon began to straggle out between

the rifts in the clouds, the count saw something by her pale light that

Ormiston saw not. That latter gentleman, standing with his back to the

house of Leoline, and his face toward that of La Masque, did not observe

the return of Sir Norman from St. Paul's, nor look after him as he rode

away. But the count did both; and ten minutes after, when the rain had

entirely ceased, and the moon and stars got the better of the clouds in

their struggle for supremacy, he beheld La Masque flitting like a dark

shadow in the same direction, and vanishing in at Leoline's door. The

same instant, Ormiston started to go.

“The storm has entirely ceased,” he said, stepping out, and with the

profound air of one making a new discovery, “and we are likely to have

fine weather for the remainder of the night--or rather, morning. Good

night, count.”

“Farewell,” said the count, as he and, his companion came out from the

shadow of the archway, and turned to follow La Masque.

Ormiston, thinking the hour of waiting had elapsed, and feeling much

more interested in the coming meeting than in Leoline or her visitors,

paid very little attention to his two acquaintances. He saw them, it

is true, enter Leoline's house, but at the same instant, he took up his

post at La Masque's doorway, and concentrated his whole attention on

that piece of architecture. Every moment seemed like a week now; and

before he had stood at his post five minutes, he had worked himself up

into a perfect fever of impatience. Sometimes he was inclined to knock

and seek La Masque in her own home; but as often the fear of a chilling

rebuke paralyzed his hand when he raised it. He was so sure she was

within the house, that he never thought of looking for her elsewhere;

and when, at the expiration of what seemed to him a century or two,

but which in reality was about a quarter of an hour, there was a soft

rustling of drapery behind him, and the sweetest of voices sounded in

his ear, it fairly made him bound.

“Here again, Mr. Ormiston? Is this the fifth or sixth time I've found

you in this place to-night?”

“La Masque!” he cried, between joy and surprise. “But surely, I was not

totally unexpected this time?”

“Perhaps not. You are waiting here for me to redeem my promise, I

suppose?”

“Can you doubt it? Since I knew you first, I have desired this hour as

the blind desire sight.”

“Ah! And you will find it as sweet to look back upon as you have to look

forward to,” said La Masque, derisively. “If you are wise for yourself,

Mr. Ormiston, you will pause here, and give me back that fatal word.”

“Never, madame! And surely you will not be so pitilessly cruel as to

draw back, now?”

“No, I have promised, and I shall perform; and let the consequences be

what they may, they will rest upon your own head. You have been warned,

and you still insist.”

“I still insist!”

“Then let us move farther over here into the shadow of the houses; this

moonlight is so dreadfully bright!”

They moved on into the deep shadow, and there was a pulse throbbing in

Ormiston's head and heart like the beating of a muffed drum. They paused

and faced each other silently.

“Quick, madame!” cried Ormiston, hoarsely, his whole face flushed

wildly.

His strange companion lifted her hand as if to remove the mask, and he

saw that it shook like an aspen. She made one motion as though about to

lift it, and then recoiled, as if from herself, in a sort of horror.

“My God! What is this man urging me to do? How can I ever fulfill that

fatal promise?”

“Madame, you torture me!” said Ormiston, whose face showed what he felt.

“You must keep your promise; so do not drive me wild waiting. Let me--”

He took a step toward her, as if to lift the mask himself, but she held

out both arms to keep him off.

“No, no, no! Come not near me, Malcolm Ormiston! Fated man, since you

will rush on your doom, Look! and let the sight blast you, if it will!”

She unfastened her mask, raised it, and with it the profusion of long,

sweeping black hair.

Ormiston did look--in much the same way, perhaps, that Zulinka looked

at the Veiled Prophet. The next moment there was a terrible cry, and he

fell headlong with a crash, as if a bullet had whined through his heart.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE INTERVIEW.

I am not aware whether fainting was as much the fashion among the fair

sex, in the days (or rather the nights) of which I have the honor to

hold forth, as at the present time; but I am inclined to think not,

from the simple fact that Leoline, though like John Bunyan, “grievously

troubled and tossed about in her mind,” did nothing of the kind. For the

first few moments, she was altogether too stunned by the suddenness of

the shock to cry out or make the least resistance, and was conscious of

nothing but of being rapidly borne along in somebody's arms. When this

hazy view of things passed away, her new sensation was, the intensely

uncomfortable one of being on the verge of suffocation. She made one

frantic but futile effort to free herself and scream for help, but the

strong arms held her with most loving tightness, and her cry was drowned

in the hot atmosphere within the shawl, and never passed beyond it. Most

assuredly Leoline would have been smothered then and there, had their

journey been much longer; but, fortunately for her, it was only the few

yards between her house and the river. She knew she was then carried

down some steps, and she heard the dip of the oars in the water, and

then her bearer paused, and went through a short dialogue with somebody

else--with Count L'Estrange, she rather felt than knew, for nothing was

audible but a low murmur. The only word she could make out was a low,

emphatic “Remember!” in the count's voice, and then she knew she was in

a boat, and that it was shoved off, and moving down the rapid river. The

feeling of heat and suffocation was dreadful and as her abductor placed

her on some cushions, she made another desperate but feeble effort to

free herself from the smothering shawl, but a hand was laid lightly on

hers, and a voice interposed.

“Lady, it is quite useless for you to struggle, as you are irrevocably

in my power, but if you will promise faithfully not to make any outcry,

and will submit to be blindfolded, I shall remove this oppressive

muffling from your head. Tell me if you will promise.”

He had partly raised the shawl, and a gush of free air came revivingly

in, and enabled Leoline to gasp out a faint “I promise!” As she spoke,

it was lifted off altogether, and she caught one bright fleeting glimpse

of the river, sparkling and silvery in the moonlight; of the bright blue

sky, gemmed with countless stars, and of some one by her side in the

dress of a court-page, whose face was perfectly unknown to her. The next

instant, a bandage was bound tightly over her eyes, excluding every ray

of light, while the strange voice again spoke apologetically,

“Pardon, lady, but it is my orders! I am commanded to treat you with

every respect, but not to let you see where you are borne to.”

“By what right does Count L'Estrange commit this outrage!” began

Leoline, almost as imperiously as Miranda herself, and making use of her

tongue, like a true woman, the very first moment it was at her disposal.

“How dare he carry me off in this atrocious way? Whoever you are, sir,

if you have the spirit of a man, you will bring me directly back to my

own house.”

“I am very sorry, lady, but I have received orders that must be obeyed!

You must come with me, but you need fear nothing; you will be as safe

and secure as in your own home.”

“Secure enough, no doubt!” said Leoline, bitterly. “I never did like

Count L'Estrange, but I never knew he was a coward and a villain till

now!”

Her companion made no reply to this forcible address, and there was a

moment's indignant silence on Leoline's part, broken only by the dip of

the oars, and the rippling of the water. Then,

“Will you not tell me, at least, where you are taking me to?” haughtily

demanded Leoline.

“Lady, I cannot! It was to prevent you knowing, that you have been

blindfolded.”

“Oh! your master has a faithful servant, I see! How long am I to be kept

a prisoner?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is Count L'Estrange?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Where am I to see him?”

“I cannot say.”

“Ha!” said Leoline, with infinite contempt, and turning her back upon

him she relapsed into gloomy silence. It had all been so sudden, and had

taken her so much by surprise, that she had not had time to think of the

consequences until now. But now they came upon her with a rush, and with

dismal distinctness; and most distinct among all was, what would Sir

Norman say! Of course, with all a lover's impatience, he would be at

his post by sunrise, would come to look for his bride, and find himself

sold! By that time she would be far enough away, perhaps a melancholy

corpse (and at this dreary passage in her meditations, Leoline sighed

profoundly), and he would never know what had become of her, or how much

and how long she had loved him. And this hateful Count L'Estrange, what

did he intend to do with her? Perhaps go so far as to make her marry

him, and imprison her with the rest of his wives; for Leoline was

prepared to think the very worst of the count, and had not the slightest

doubt that he already had a harem full of abducted wives, somewhere. But

no--he never could do that, he might do what he liked with weaker minds,

but she never would be a bride of his while the plague or poison was to

be had in London. And with this invincible determination rooted fixedly,

not to say obstinately, in her mind, she was nearly pitched overboard

by the boat suddenly landing at some unexpected place. A little natural

scream of terror was repressed on her lips by a hand being placed over

them, and the determined but perfectly respectful tones of the person

beside her speaking.

“Remember your promise, lady, and do not make a noise. We have arrived

at our journey's end, and if you will take my arm, I will lead you

along, instead of carrying you.”

Leoline was rather surprised to find the journey so short, but she arose

directly, with silence and dignity--at least with as much of the latter

commodity as could be reasonably expected, considering that boats on

water are rather unsteady things to be dignified in--and was led gently

and with care out of the swaying vessel, and up another flight of

stairs. Then, in a few moments, she was conscious of passing from the

free night air into the closer atmosphere of a house; and in going

through an endless labyrinth of corridors, and passages, and suites of

rooms, and flights of stairs, until she became so extremely tired,

that she stopped with spirited abruptness, and in the plainest possible

English, gave her conductor to understand that they had gone about far

enough for all practical purposes. To which that patient and respectful

individual replied that he was glad to inform her they had but a few

more steps to go, which the next moment proved to be true, for he

stopped and announced that their promenade was over for the night.

“And I suppose I may have the use of my eyes at last?” inquired Leoline,

with more haughtiness than Sir Norman could have believed possible so

gentle a voice could have expressed.

For reply, her companion rapidly untied the bandage, and withdrew it

with a flourish. The dazzling brightness that burst upon her, so blinded

her, that for a moment she could distinguish nothing; and when she

looked round to contemplate her companion, she found him hurriedly

making his exit, and securely locking the door.

The sound of the key turning in the lock gave her a most peculiar

sensation, which none but those who have experienced it can properly

understand. It is not the most comfortable feeling in the world to know

you are a prisoner, even if you have no key turned upon you but the

weather, and your jailer be a high east wind and lashing rain. Leoline's

prison and jailer were something worse; and, for the first time, a chill

of fear and dismay crept icily to the core of her heart. But Leoline had

something of Miranda's courage, as well as her looks and temper; so

she tried to feel as brave as possible, and not think of her unpleasant

predicament while there remained anything else to think about. Perhaps

she might escape, too; and, as this notion struck her, she looked with

eager anxiety, not unmixed with curiosity, at the place where she was.

By this time, her eyes had been accustomed to the light, which proceeded

from a great antique lamp of bronze, pendent by a brass chain from

the ceiling; and she saw she was in a moderately sized and by no means

splendid room. But what struck her most was, that everything had a look

of age about it, from the glittering oak beams of the floor to the

faded ghostly hangings on the wall. There was a bed at one end--a great

spectral ark of a thing, like a mausoleum, with drapery as old and

spectral as that on the walls, and in which she could no more have lain

than in a moth-eaten shroud. The seats and the one table the room held

were of the same ancient and weird pattern, and the sight of them gave

her a shivering sensation not unlike an ague chill. There was but one

door--a huge structure, with shining panels, securely locked; and escape

from that quarter was utterly out of the question. There was one window,

hung with dark curtains of tarnished embroidery, but in pushing them

aside, she met only a dull blank of unlighted glass, for the shutters

were firmly secured without. Altogether, she could not form the

slightest idea where she was; and, with a feeling of utter despair, she

sat down on one of the queer old chairs, with much the same feeling as

if she were sitting in a tomb.

What would Sir Norman say? What would he ever think of her, when he

found her gone. And what was destined to be her fate in this dreadful

out-of-the-way place? She would have cried, as most of her sex would be

tempted to do in such a situation, but that her dislike and horror of

Count L'Estrange was a good deal stronger than her grief, and turned her

tears to sparks of indignant fire. Never, never, never! would she be his

wife! He might kill her a thousand times, if he liked, and she wouldn't

yield an inch. She did not mind dying in a good cause; she could do it

but once. And with Sir Norman despising her, as she felt he must do,

when he found her run away, she rather liked the idea than otherwise.

Mentally, she bade adieu to all her friends before beginning to prepare

for her melancholy fate--to her handsome lover, to his gallant friend

Ormiston, to her poor nurse, Prudence, and to her mysterious visitor, La

Masque.

La Masque! Ah! that name awoke a new chord of recollection--the casket,

she had it with her yet. Instantly, everything was forgotten but it and

its contents; and she placed a chair directly under the lamp, drew it

out, and looked at it. It was a pretty little bijou itself, with its

polished ivory surface, and shining clasps of silver. But the inside had

far more interest for her than the outside, and she fitted the key

and unlocked it with a trembling hand. It was lined with azure velvet,

wrought with silver thread, in dainty wreathe of water lilies; and in

the bottom, neatly folded, lay a sheet of foolscap. She opened it with

nervous haste; it was a common sheet enough, stamped with fool's cap

and bells, that showed it belonged to Cromwell's time. It was closely

written, in a light, fair hand, and bore the title “Leoline's History.”