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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you mean to give up the pursuit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Norman laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On London Bridge.”

“I did not see you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And why?”

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

“Good Heaven! And what then?”

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

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who was the other?”

“A friend of mine—one Malcolm Ormiston.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Norman's lip curled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leoline.”

“Was she your wife?”

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

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

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

“Was she anybody else's wife?”

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

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

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

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

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

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