"The 'Midnight Queen,'—"
The words died on their lips. They stood as if suddenly frozen to the floor. The beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was pale as death, and as for Ernest, the glow of the wine had left his cheek—his face was livid and distorted.
Moments passed and neither had power to speak.
"O, my God, it is Frank!" the words at last burst from the lips of Ernest, and he fell like a dead man at her feet.
Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances Van Huyden, his betrothed wife—six months ago resting on his bosom and whispering "husband" in his ear,—and now—the wife of another? A widow? Or one utterly fallen from all virtue and all hope?
[CHAPTER X.]
THE PALACE-HOME.
Having thus given the incident from the life of Ernest, as far as possible, in the very words of his MSS., let me continue my history from the hour when, in company with my mother, I left the cottage home of the good clergyman. After the incident just related, nothing in my life can appear strange.
I was riding in the carriage with my mother toward New York.