"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."
"He is Leoline's twin brother--that accounts for it. When does she
become your wife?"
"This very morning, God willing!" raid Sir Norman, fervently.
"Amen! And may her life and yours be long and happy. What becomes of the
rest?"
"Since Hubert is her brother, he shall come with us, if he will. As for
the other, she, alas! is dead."
"Dead!" cried La Masque. "How? When? She was living, tonight!"
"True! She died of a wound."
"A wound? Surely not given by the dwarfs hand?"
"No, no; it was quite accidental. But since you know so much of the
dwarf, perhaps you also know he is now the king's prisoner?"
"I did not know it; but I surmised as much when I discovered that you
and Count L'Estrange, followed by such a body of men, visited the ruin.
Well, his career has been long and dark enough, and even the plague
seemed to spare him for the executioner. And so the poor mock-queen is
dead? Well, her sister will not long survive her."
"Good Heavens, madame!" cried Sir Norman, aghast. "You do not mean to
say that Leoline is going to die?"
"Oh, no! I hope Leoline has a long and happy life before her. But the
wretched, guilty sister I mean is, myself; for I, too, Sir Norman, am
her sister."
At this new disclosure, Sir Norman stood perfectly petrified; and La
Masque, looking down at the dreadful place at her feet, went rapidly on: "Alas and alas! that it should be so; but it is the direful truth. We
bear the same name, we had the same father; and yet I have been the
curse and bane of their lives."
"And Leoline knows this?"
"She never knew it until this night, or any one else alive; and no one
should know it now, were not my ghastly life ending. I prayed her to
forgive me for the wrong I have done her; and she may, for she is gentle
and good--but when, when shall I be able to forgive myself?"
The sharp pain in her voice jarred on Sir Norman's ear and heart; and,
to get rid of its dreary echo, he hurriedly asked: "You say you bear the same name. May I ask what name that is?"
"It is one, Sir Norman Kingsley, before which your own ancient title
pales. We are Montmorencis, and in our veins runs the proudest blood in
France."