The page sprang up the stairs after them, humming as he came, one of his master's love ditties—songs, saith tradition, savoring anything but the odor of sanctity. With the warning of La Masque fresh in their mind, both looked at him earnestly. His gay livery was that of Lord Rochester, and became his graceful figure well, as he marched along with a jaunty swagger, one hand on his aide, and the other toying with a beautiful little spaniel, that frisked in open violation of the Lord Mayor's orders, commanding all dogs, great and small, to be put to death as propagators of the pestilence. In passing, the lad turned his face toward them for a moment—a bright, saucy, handsome face it was—and the next instant he went round an angle and disappeared. Ormiston suppressed an oath. Sir Norman stifled a cry of amazement—for both recognized that beautiful colorless face, those perfect features, and great, black, lustrous eyes. It was the face of the lady they had saved from the plague-pit!
“Am I sane or mad?” inquired Sir Norman, looking helplessly about him for information. “Surely that is she we are in search of.”
“It certainly is!” said Ormiston. “Where are the wonders of this night to end?”
“Satan and La Masque only know; for they both seem to have united to drive me mad. Where is she?”
“Where, indeed?” said Ormiston; “where is last year's snow?” And Sir Norman, looking round at the spot where she had stood a moment before, found that she, too, had disappeared.
CHAPTER IV. THE STRANGER.
The two friends looked at each other in impressive silence for a moment, and spake never a word. Not that they were astonished—they were long past the power of that emotion: and if a cloud had dropped from the sky at their feet, they would probably have looked at it passively, and vaguely wonder if the rest would follow. Sir Norman, especially, had sank into a state of mind that words are faint and feeble to describe. Ormiston, not being quite so far gone, was the first to open his lips.
“Upon my honor, Sir Norman, this is the most astonishing thing ever I heard of. That certainly was the face of our half-dead bride! What, in the name of all the gods, can it mean, I wonder?”
“I have given up wondering,” said Sir Norman, in the same helpless tone. “And if the earth was to open and swallow London up, I should not be the least surprised. One thing is certain: the lady we are seeking and that page are one and the same.”