Then, grinning like a baboon, and still transfixing our puissant young knight with the same tiger-like and unpleasant glare, he nodded a farewell; and in this fashion, grinning, and nodding, and backing, he got to the door, and concluding the interesting performance with a third hoa.r.s.e and hideous laugh, disappeared in the darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI. LA MASQUE

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

I don't know whether these were Mr. Malcolm or Ormiston's thoughts, as he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms across his chest to await the shining of his day-star. In fact, I am pretty sure they were not: young gentlemen, as a general thing, not being any more given to profound moralizing in the reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles II., than they are at the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was his bosom friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of sight, than he forgot him as totally as if he had never known that distinguished individual. His many and deep afflictions, his love, his anguish, and his provocations; his beautiful, tantalizing, and mysterious lady-love; his errand and its probable consequences, all were forgotten; and Ormiston thought of nothing or n.o.body in the world but himself and La Masque. La Masque! La Masque! that was the theme on which his thoughts rang, with wild variations of alternate hope and fear, like every other lover since the world began, and love was first an inst.i.tution. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be," truly, truly it is an odd and wonderful thing. And you and I may thank our stars, dear readers, that we are a great deal too sensible to wear our hearts in our sleeves for such a bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was longer-lived than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and had it badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did she conceal her face--would she ever disclose it--would she listen to him--would she ever love him? feverishly asked Pa.s.sion; and Common Sense (or what little of that useful commodity he had left) answered--probably because she was eccentric--possibly she would disclose it for the same reason; that he had only to try and make her listen; and as to her loving him, why, Common Sense owned he had her there.

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

"Who calls?"

"It is I, madame--Prudence."

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

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

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

"But, madame, I was so frightened!"

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

Ormiston drew back as the twain approached, and entered the deep portals of La Masque's own doorway. He could see them both by the aforesaid faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's companion was a wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the peace of mind of the most jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps it was not just the thing to hover aloof and listen; but he could not for the life of him help it; and stand and listen he accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal conversation might throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious to see through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear the better, he would have had the operation then and there performed.

There was a moment's silence after the two entered the portal, during which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and commanding, motionless as a marble column; and the little withered old specimen of humanity beside her stood gazing up at her with something between fear and fascination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O my G.o.d! And they buried her alive--buried her alive in that dreadful plague-pit!"

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

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

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

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

Prudence looked up a little puzzled.

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

"Could have helped it? What do you mean, Prudence? n.o.body made her, did they?"