Sir Norman gazed at her in a state of hopeless bewilderment. He had thought, from the moment he saw her first, that there was something wrong with her brain, to make her act in such a mysterious, eccentric sort of way; but he had never positively thought her so far gone as this. In his own mind, he set her down, now, as being mad as a March hare, and accordingly answered in that soothing tone people use to imbeciles, “My dear Madame Masque, pray do not excite yourself, or say such dreadful things. I am sure you would not willfully cause the death of any one, much less that of one who loved you as he did.” La Masque broke into a wild laugh, almost worse to hear than her former despairing moans. “The man thinks me mad! He will not believe, unless he sees and knows for himself! Perhaps you, too, Sir Norman Kingsley,” she cried, changing into sudden fierceness, “would like to see the face behind this mask?--would like to see what has slain your friend, and share his fate?” “Certainly,” said Sir Norman. “I should like to see it; and I think I may safely promise not to die from the effects. But surely, madame, you deceive yourself; no face, however ugly--even supposing you to possess such a one--could produce such dismay as to cause death.” “You shall see.” She was looking down into the plague-pit, standing so close to its cracking edge, that Sir Norman's blood ran cold, in the momentary expectation to see her slip and fall headlong in. Her voice was less fierce and less wild, but her hands were still clasped tightly over her heart, as if to ease the unutterable pain there. Suddenly, she looked up, and said, in an altered tone: “You have lost Leoline?” “And found her again. She is in the power of one Count L'Estrange.” “And if in his power, pray, how have you found her?” “Because we are both to meet in her presence within this very hour, and she is to decide between us.” “Has Count L'Estrange promised you this?” “He has.” “And you have no doubt what her decision will be?” “Not the slightest.” “How came you to know she was carried off by this count?” “He confessed it himself.” “Voluntarily?” “No; I taxed him with it, and he owned to the deed; but he voluntarily promised to take me to her and abide by her decision.” “Extraordinary!” said La Masque, as if to herself. “Whimsical as he is, I scarcely expected he would give her up so easily as this.” “Then you know him, madame?” said Sir Norman, pointedly. “There are few things I do not know, and rare are the disguises I cannot penetrate. So you have discovered it, too?” “No, madame, my eyes were not sharp enough, nor had I sufficient cleverness, even, for that. It was Hubert, the Earl of Rochester's page, who told me who he was.” “Ah, the page!” said La Masque, quickly. “You have then been speaking to him? What do you think of his resemblance to Leoline?” “I think it is the most astonishing resemblance I ever saw. But he is not the only one who bears Leoline's face.”