"Great Heaven! what a beautiful face!" was his cry, as he bent still

further down.

"What the plague is the matter?" asked Sir Norman, coming forward.

"You have said it," said Ormiston, recoiling. "The plague is the matter.

There lies one dead of it!"

Curiosity proving stronger than fear, Sir Norman stepped forward to look

at the corpse. It was a young girl with a face as lovely as a poet's

vision. That face was like snow, now; and, in its calm, cold majesty,

looked as exquisitely perfect as some ancient Grecian statue. The low,

pearly brow, the sweet, beautiful lips, the delicate oval outline of

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countenance, were perfect. The eyes were closed, and the long dark

lashes rested on the ivory cheeks. A profusion of shining dark hair fell

in elaborate curls over her neck and shoulders. Her dress was that of

a bride; a robe of white satin brocaded with silver, fairly dazzling in

its shining radiance, and as brief in the article of sleeves and neck

as that of any modern belle. A circlet of pearls were clasped round her

snow-white throat, and bracelets of the same jewels encircled the snowy

taper arms. On her head she wore a bridal wreath and veil--the former

of jewels, the latter falling round her like a cloud of mist. Everything

was perfect, from the wreath and veil to the tiny sandaled feet and

lying there in her mute repose she looked more like some exquisite

piece of sculpture than anything that had ever lived and moved in this

groveling world of ours. But from one shoulder the dress had been pulled

down, and there lay a great livid purple plague-spot!

"Come away!" said Ormiston, catching his companion by the arm. "It is

death to remain here!"

Sir Norman had been standing like one in a trance, from which

this address roused him, and he grasped Ormiston's shoulder almost

frantically.

"Look there, Ormiston! There lies the very face that sorceress showed

me, fifteen minutes ago, in her infernal caldron! I would know it at the

other end of the world!"

"Are you sure?" said Ormiston, glancing again with new curiosity at the

marble face. "I never saw anything half so beautiful in all my life; but

you see she is dead of the plague."

"Dead? she cannot be! Nothing so perfect could die!"

"Look there," said Ormiston pointing to the plague-spot. "There is the

fatal token! For Heaven's sake let us get out of this, or we will share

the same fate before morning!"

But Sir Norman did not move--could not move; he stood there rooted to

the spot by the spell of that lovely, lifeless face.

Usually the plague left its victims hideous, ghastly, discolored, and

covered with blotches; but in this case then was nothing to mar the

perfect beauty of the satin-smooth skin, but that one dreadful mark.




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