From the first moment of his looking down, Sir Norman had been staring

with all the eyes in his head, undergoing one shock of surprise after

another with the equanimity of a man quite need to it; but now a cry

arose to his lips, and died there in voiceless consternation. For he

recognized the queen--well he might!--he had seen her before, and her

face was the face of Leoline!

As she mounted the stairs, she stood there for a moment crowned and

sceptred, before sitting down, and in that moment he recognized the

whole scene. That gorgeous room and its gorgeous inmates; that regal

throne and its regal owner, all became palpable as the sun at noonday;

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that slender, exquisite figure, robed in royal purple and ermine; the

uncovered neck and arms, snowy and perfect, ablaze with jewels; that

lovely face, like snow, like marble, in its whiteness end calm, with

the great, dark, earnest eyes looking out, and the waving wealth of hair

falling around it. It was the very scene, and room, and vision, that

La Masque had shown him in the caldron, and that face was the face of

Leoline, and the earl's page.

Could he be dreaming? Was he sane or mad, or were the three really one?

While he looked, the beautiful queen bowed low, and amid the profoundest

and most respectful silence, took her seat. In her robes of purple,

wearing the glittering crown, sceptre in hand, throned and canopied,

royally beautiful she looked indeed, and a most vivid contrast to the

gentleman near her, seated very much at his ease, on the lower throne.

The contrast was not of dress--for his outward man was resplendent to

look at; but in figure and face, or grace and dignity, he was a very

mean specimen of the lords of creation, indeed. In stature, he scarcely

reached to the queen's royal shoulder, but made up sideways what he

wanted in length--being the breadth of two common men; his head was in

proportion to his width, and was decorated with a wig of long, flowing,

flaxen hair, that scarcely harmonized with a profusion of the article

whiskers, in hue most unmitigated black; his eyes were small, keen,

bright, and piercing, and glared on the assembled company as they had

done half an hour before on Sir Norman Kingsley, in the bar-room of the

Golden Crown; for the royal little man was no other than Caliban, the

dwarf. Behind the thrones the flock of floral angels grouped themselves;

archbishop, prime minister, and embassadors, took their stand within the

lines of the soldiery, and the music softly and impressively died sway

in the distance; dead silence reigned.

"My lord Duke," began the queen, in the very voice he had heard at the

plague-pit, as she turned to the stylish individual next the archbishop,

"come forward and read us the roll of mortality since our last meeting."




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