"You did wrong, Prudence," said La Masque, sternly, or at least as

sternly as so sweet a voice could speak; "you did very wrong to leave

her in such a way. You should have come to me at once, and told me all."

"But, madame, I was so frightened!"

"Bah! You are nothing but a coward. Come into this doorway, and tell me

all about it."

Ormiston drew back as the twain approached, and entered the deep portals

of La Masque's own doorway. He could see them both by the aforesaid

faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's companion was a

wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the peace of mind of the most

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jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps it was not just the thing to hover

aloof and listen; but he could not for the life of him help it; and

stand and listen he accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal

conversation might throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious

to see through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear

the better, he would have had the operation then and there performed.

There was a moment's silence after the two entered the portal, during

which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and commanding, motionless as a

marble column; and the little withered old specimen of humanity beside

her stood gazing up at her with something between fear and fascination.

"Do you know what has become of your charge, Prudence?" asked the low,

vibrating voice of La Masque, at last.

"How could I, madame? You know I fled from the house, and I dared not go

back. Perhaps she is there still."

"Perhaps she is not? Do you suppose that sharp shriek of yours was

unheard? No; she was found; and what do you suppose has become of her?"

The old woman looked up, and seemed to read in the dark, stern figure,

and the deep solemn voice, the fatal truth. She wrong her hands with a

sort of cry.

"Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and buried her

in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress."

"If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of

running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened," said La

Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.

"Madame," sobbed the old woman, who was crying, "she was dying of the

plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her in spite of

me."

"She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive as you

or I at this moment."

"Madame, I left her dead!" said the old woman positively.

"Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in that

state she was found and carried to the plague-pit."




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