“No, madame, my eyes were not sharp enough, nor had I sufficient cleverness, even, for that. It was Hubert, the Earl of Rochester's page, who told me who he was.”
“Ah, the page!” said La Masque, quickly. “You have then been speaking to him? What do you think of his resemblance to Leoline?”
“I think it is the most astonishing resemblance I ever saw. But he is not the only one who bears Leoline's face.”
“And the other is?”
“The other is she whom you sent me to see in the old ruins. Madame, I wish you would tell me the secret of this wonderful likeness; for I am certain you know, and I am equally certain it is not accidental.”
“You are right. Leoline knows already; for, with the presentiment that my end was near, I visited her when you left, and gave her her whole history, in writing. The explanation is simple enough. Leoline, Miranda, and Hubert, are sisters and brother.”
Some misty idea that such was the case had been struggling through Sir Norman's slow mind, unformed and without shape, ever since he had seen the trio, therefore he was not the least astonished when he heard the fact announced. Only in one thing he was a little disappointed.
“Then Hubert is really a boy?” he said, half dejectedly.
“Certainly he is. What did you take him to be?”
“Why, I thought—that is, I do not know,” said Sir Norman, quite blushing at being guilty of so much romance, “but that he was a woman in disguise. You see he is so handsome, and looks so much like Leoline, that I could not help thinking so.”