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."
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?"