They stopped at the doors of a large dark-looking building in a narrow street. He thought it was a church, and wondered that so his sister should be going there on a week night. Nor did the aspect of the entrance hall, into which he followed them, undeceive him. It was more showy, certainly, than the vestibule of any church he had ever been in before, but what might not churches be in London? They went up a great flight of stairs--to reach the gallery, as he thought, and still he went after them. When he reached the top, they were just vanishing round a curve, and his advance was checked: a man came up to him, said he could not come there, and gruffly requested him to show his ticket. “I haven’t got one. What is this place?” said Malcolm, whom the aspect of the man had suddenly rendered doubtful, mouthing his English with Scotch deliberation. The man gave him a look of contemptuous surprise, and turning to another who lounged behind him with his hands in his pockets, said-- “Tom, here’s a gentleman as wants to know where he is: can you tell him?” The person addressed laughed, and gave Malcolm a queer look. “Every cock crows on his own midden,” said Malcolm, “but if I were on mine, I would try to be civil.” “You go down there, and pay for a pit ticket, and you’ll soon know where you are, mate,” said Tom. He obeyed, and after a few inquiries, and the outlay of two shillings, found himself in the pit of one of the largest of the London theatres. CHAPTER X. THE TEMPEST. The play was begun, and the stage was the centre of light. Thither Malcolm’s eyes were drawn the instant he entered. He was all but unaware of the multitude of faces about him, and his attention was at once fascinated by the lovely show revealed in soft radiance. But surely he had seen the vision before! One long moment its effect upon him was as real as if he had been actually deceived as to its nature: was it not the shore between Scaurnose and Portlossie, betwixt the Boar’s Tail and the sea? and was not that the marquis, his father, in his dressing gown, pacing to and fro upon the sands? He yielded himself to illusion--abandoned himself to the wonderful, and looked only for what would come next. A lovely lady entered: to his excited fancy it was Florimel. A moment more and she spoke. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. Then first he understood that before him rose in wondrous realization the play of Shakspere he knew best--the first he had ever read: _The Tempest_, hitherto a lovely phantom for the mind’s eye, now embodied to the enraptured sense. During the whole of the first act he never thought either of Miranda or Florimel apart. At the same time so taken was he with the princely carriage and utterance of Ferdinand that, though with a sigh, he consented he should have his sister.