“Madame, who are you? Who were they?”
“I? Oh, I am La Masque, the sorceress, and they—they were Leoline's father and mother!” and again La Masque slightly laughed.
“You mock me, madame!” cried Leoline, passionately. “You are cruel—you are heartless! If you know anything, in Heaven's name tell me—if not, go and leave me in peace!”
“Thank you! I shall do that presently; and as to the other—of course I shall tell you; what else do you suppose I have come for to-night? Look here! Do you see this?”
She drew out from some hidden pocket in her dress a small and beautifully-wrought casket of ivory and silver, with straps and clasps of silver, and a tiny key of the same.
“Well!” asked Leoline, looking from it to her, with the blank air of one utterly bewildered,
“In this casket, my dear, there is a roll of papers, closely written, which you are to read as soon as I leave you. Those papers contain your whole history—do you understand?”
She was looking so white, and staring so hard and so hopelessly, that there was need of the question. She took the casket and gazed at it with a perplexed air.
“My child, have your thoughts gone wool-gathering? Do you not comprehend what I have said to you! Your whole history is hid in that box?”
“I know!” said Leoline, slowly, and with her eyes again riveted to the black mask. “But; madame, who are you?”