“I haven’t got one. What is this place?” said Malcolm, whom the aspect of the man had suddenly rendered doubtful, mouthing his English with Scotch deliberation.
The man gave him a look of contemptuous surprise, and turning to another who lounged behind him with his hands in his pockets, said—
“Tom, here’s a gentleman as wants to know where he is: can you tell him?”
The person addressed laughed, and gave Malcolm a queer look.
“Every cock crows on his own midden,” said Malcolm, “but if I were on mine, I would try to be civil.”
“You go down there, and pay for a pit ticket, and you’ll soon know where you are, mate,” said Tom.
He obeyed, and after a few inquiries, and the outlay of two shillings, found himself in the pit of one of the largest of the London theatres.
CHAPTER X.
THE TEMPEST.
The play was begun, and the stage was the centre of light. Thither Malcolm’s eyes were drawn the instant he entered. He was all but unaware of the multitude of faces about him, and his attention was at once fascinated by the lovely show revealed in soft radiance. But surely he had seen the vision before! One long moment its effect upon him was as real as if he had been actually deceived as to its nature: was it not the shore between Scaurnose and Portlossie, betwixt the Boar’s Tail and the sea? and was not that the marquis, his father, in his dressing gown, pacing to and fro upon the sands? He yielded himself to illusion—abandoned himself to the wonderful, and looked only for what would come next.
A lovely lady entered: to his excited fancy it was Florimel. A moment more and she spoke.