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.