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?” At the same moment, a loud voice within the circle abruptly exclaimed “She revives, she revives! Back, back, and give her air!”