La Masque broke into a wild laugh, almost worse to hear than her former despairing moans.
“The man thinks me mad! He will not believe, unless he sees and knows for himself! Perhaps you, too, Sir Norman Kingsley,” she cried, changing into sudden fierceness, “would like to see the face behind this mask?—would like to see what has slain your friend, and share his fate?”
“Certainly,” said Sir Norman. “I should like to see it; and I think I may safely promise not to die from the effects. But surely, madame, you deceive yourself; no face, however ugly—even supposing you to possess such a one—could produce such dismay as to cause death.”
“You shall see.”
She was looking down into the plague-pit, standing so close to its cracking edge, that Sir Norman's blood ran cold, in the momentary expectation to see her slip and fall headlong in. Her voice was less fierce and less wild, but her hands were still clasped tightly over her heart, as if to ease the unutterable pain there. Suddenly, she looked up, and said, in an altered tone:
“You have lost Leoline?”
“And found her again. She is in the power of one Count L'Estrange.”
“And if in his power, pray, how have you found her?”
“Because we are both to meet in her presence within this very hour, and she is to decide between us.”
“Has Count L'Estrange promised you this?”