At that moment Lord Darby laid his hand on his arm. "God's my life!" cried he, "we are vanishing away. Look, look!"
Sir Osborne turned to the glass, and beheld the three figures he had before seen plain and distinctly, now growing dimmer and more dim. He could scarcely believe his sight, and passing his hand before his eyes, he strove, as it were, to cure them of the delusion. When he looked again, all was gone, and the mirror offered nothing but a dark shining blank. Presently, however, a confusion of thin and misty figures seemed to pass over the glass, and a light appeared to spring up within itself: gradually the objects took a more substantial form; the interior of the mirror assumed the appearance of a smaller chamber than that which they were in, lighted by a lattice window, and in the centre was seen a female figure leaning in a pensive attitude on a table. Sir Osborne thought it was like Lady Katrine Bulmer, but the light coming from behind cast her features into shadow. The moment after, however, a door of the chamber seemed to open, and he could plainly distinguish a figure, resembling that of Lord Darby, enter, and clasp her in his arms, with a semblance of joy so naturally portrayed, that it was hardly possible to suppose it unreal.
While he yet gazed, the outlines of the figures began to grow confused and indistinct, and various ill-defined forms floated over the glass. Gradually, however, they again assumed shape and feature; the mirror represented a princely hall hung with cloth of gold, and a thousand gay and splendid figures ranged themselves round the scene. Princes, and prelates, and warriors, moved before their eyes, as if 'twas all in life. There might be seen the slight significant look, the animated gesture, the whisper apart, the stoop of age; the high erect carriage of knight and noble, and the graceful motion of youth and beauty.
"By heavens!" cried Lord Darby, "there is the Earl of Devonshire, and the Duke of Suffolk, and the Princess Mary. It is the court of England! But no! Who are all these?"
Gradually the crowd opened, and two persons appeared, whose apparel, demeanour, and glance, bespoke them royal.
"Henry himself, as I live!" cried Lord Darby.
"Which? which?" demanded Sir Osborne.
"The one to the right," answered the earl; "the other I know not."
It was the other, however, who advanced, leading forward by the hand a knight, in whom Sir Osborne might easily distinguish the simulacre of himself. The prince, whoever he was, seemed to speak, and a lady came forth from the rest. By the graceful motion, by the timid look, by the rich light brown hair, as well as by all a lover's feelings, Sir Osborne could not doubt that it was Constance de Grey. The monarch took her hand; placed it in that of the knight; the figures grew dim and the glass misty; but gradually clearing away, it resumed its original effect, and reflected the hall in which they were, their own forms standing before the mirror, and the old man, Sir Cesar, sitting on the ground, with his hands pressed over his eyes. The moment they turned round, he started up.
"It is done!" cried he; "so now, begone! We shall meet again soon;" and putting his finger to his lip, as if requiring silence, he led them out of the hall, and down the stairs, signed them with the cross, and left them.