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.