“You noisy old idiot!” cried Sir Norman, losing all patience, “I will throw you out of the window if you keep up such a clamor as this. I tell you La Masque is dead!” At this ominous announcement, the ghastly porter fell back, and became, if possible, a shade more ghastly than was his wont. “Dead and buried!” repeated Sir Norman, with gloomy sternness, “and there will be somebody else coming to take possession shortly. How many more servants are there here beside yourself?” “Only one, sir--my wife Joanna. In mercy's name, sir, do not turn us out in the streets at this dreadful time!” “Not I! You and your wife Joanna may stagnate here till you blue-mold, for me. But keep the door fast, my good old friend, and admit no strangers, but those who can tell you La Masque is dead!” With which parting piece of advice Sir Norman left the house, and joined George, who sat like an effigy before the door, in a state of great mental wrath, and who accosted him rather suddenly the moment he made his appearance. “I tell you what, Sir Norman Kingsley, if you have many more morning calls to make, I shall beg leave to take my departure. As it is, I know we are behind time, and his ma--the count, I mean, is not one who it accustomed or inclined to be kept waiting.” “I am quite at your service now,” said Sir Norman, springing on horseback; “so away with you, quick as you like.” George wanted no second order. Before the words were well out of his companion's mouth, he was dashing away like a bolt from a bow, as furiously as if on a steeple-chase, with Sir Norman close at his heels; and they rode, flushed and breathless, with their steeds all a foaming, into the court-yard of the royal palace at Whitehall, just as the early rising sun was showing his florid and burning visage above the horizon. The court-yard, unlike the city streets, swarmed with busy life. Pages, and attendants, and soldiers, moving hither and thither, or lounging about, preparing for the morning's journey to Oxford. Among the rest Sir Norman observed Hubert, lying very much at his ease wrapped in his cloak, on the ground, and chatting languidly with a pert and pretty attendant of the fair Mistress Stuart. He cut short his flirtation, however, abruptly enough, and sprang to his feet as he saw Sir Norman, while George immediately darted off and disappeared from the palace. “Am I late Hubert?” said his hurried questioner, as he drew the lad's arm within his own, and led him off out of hearing. “I think not. The count,” said Hubert, with laughing emphasis, “has not been visible since he entered yonder doorway, and there has been no message that I have heard of. Doubtless, now that George has arrived, the message will soon be here, for the royal procession starts within half an hour.” “Are you sure there is no trick, Hubert? Even now he may be with Leoline!” Hubert shrugged his shoulders.