With a perfectly heart-rending groan, the unfortunate duke walked on;

but when they reached the archway directly before the room, he came to

an obstinate halt, and positively refused to go a step farther. It was

death, anyway, and he resisted with the courage of desperation,

feeling he might as well die there as go in and be assassinated by his

confederates, and not even the persuasive influence of Hubert's dagger

could prevail on him to budge an inch farther.

"Stay, then!" said the count, with perfect indifference. "And, soldiers,

see that he does not escape! Now, Kingsley, let us just have a glimpse

of what is going on within."

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Though the party had made considerable noise in advancing, and had

spoken quite loudly in their little animated discussion with the duke,

so great was the turmoil and confusion within, that it was not heeded,

or even heard. With very different feelings from those with which he had

stood there last, Sir Norman stepped forward and stood beside the count,

looking at the scene within.

The crimson court was in a state of "most admired disorder," and the

confusion of tongues was equal to Babel. No longer were they languidly

promenading, or lolling in the cushioned chairs; but all seemed running

to and fro in the wildest excitement, which the grandest duke among

them seemed to share equally with the terrified white sylphs. Everybody

appeared to be talking together, and paying no attention whatever to

the sentiments of their neighbors. One universal centre of union alone

seemed to exist, and that was the green, judicial table near the throne,

upon which, while all tongues ran, all eyes turned. For some minutes,

neither of the beholders could make out why, owing to the crowd

(principally of the ladies) pressing around it; but Sir Norman guessed,

and thrilled through with a vague sensation of terror, lest it should

prove to be the dead body of Miranda. Skipping in and out among the

females he saw the dwarf, performing a sort of war dance of rage and

frenzy; twining both hands in his wig, as if he would have torn it out

by the roots, and anon tearing at somebody else's wig, so that everybody

backed off when he came near them.

"Who is that little fiend?" inquired the count; "and what have they got

there at the and of the room, pray?"

"That little fiend is the ringleader here, and is entitled Prince

Caliban. Regarding your other question," said Sir Norman, with a faint

thrill, "there was a table there when I saw it last, but I am afraid

there is something worse now."

"Could ever any mortal conceive of such a scene," observed the count

to himself; "look at that little picture of ugliness; how he hops about

like a dropsical bull-frog. Some of those women are very pretty, too,

and outshine more than one court-beauty that I have seen. Upon my word,

it is the most extraordinary spectacle I ever heard of. I wonder what

they've got that's so attractive down there?"




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