All this time, the attendant, George, had been sitting, very much at his

ease, on horseback, looking after Sir Norman's charger and admiring

the beauties of sunrise. He had seen Sir Norman in conversation with

a strange female, and not much liking his near proximity to the

plague-pit, was rather impatient for it to come to an end; but when he

saw the tragic manner in which it did end, his consternation was beyond

all bounds. Sir Norman, in his horrified flight, would have fairly

passed him unnoticed, had not George arrested him by a loud shout.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Norman," he exclaimed, as that gentleman turned

his distracted face; "but, it seems to me, you are running away. Here is

your horse; and allow me to say, unless we hurry we will scarcely reach

the count by sunrise."

Sir Norman leaned against his horse, and shaded his eyes with his hand,

shuddering like one in an ague.

"Why did that woman leap into the plague-pit?" inquired George, looking

at him curiously. "Was it not the sorceress, La Masque?"

"Yes, yes. Do not ask me any questions now," replied Sir Norman, in a

smothered voice, and with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Whatever you please, sir," said George, with the flippancy of his

class; "but still I must repeat, if you do not mount instantly, we will

be late; and my master, the count, is not one who brooks delay."

The young knight vaulted into the saddle without a word, and started

off at a break-neck pace into the city. George, almost unable to keep up

with him, followed instead of leading, rather skeptical in his own mind

whether he were not riding after a moon-struck lunatic. Once or twice

he shouted out a sharp-toned inquiry as to whether he knew where he was

going, and that they were taking the wrong way altogether; to all of

which Sir Norman deigned not the slightest reply, but rode more and more

recklessly on. There were but few people abroad at that hour; indeed,

for that matter, the streets of London, in the dismal summer of 1665,

were, comparatively speaking, always deserted; and the few now wending

their way homeward were tired physicians and plague-nurses from the

hospitals, and several hardy country folks, with more love of lucre

than fear of death bending their steps with produce to the market-place.

These people, sleepy and pallid in the gray haze of daylight, stared in

astonishment after the two furious riders; and windows were thrown open,

and heads thrust out to see what the unusual thunder of horses' hoofs at

that early hour meant. George followed dauntlessly on, determined to

do it or die in the attempt; and if he had ever heard of the Flying

Dutchman, would undoubtedly have come to the conclusion that he was

just then following his track on dry land. But, unlike the hapless

Vanderdecken, Sir Norman came to a halt at last, and that so suddenly

that his horse stood on his beam ends, and flourished his two fore limbs

in the atmosphere. It was before La Masque's door; and Sir Norman was

out of the saddle in a flash, and knocking like a postman with the

handle of his whip on the door. The thundering reveille rang through the

house, making it shake to its centre, and hurriedly brought to the door,

the anatomy who acted as guardian-angel of the establishment.




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