Ormiston, like the amiable, obedient young man that he was, instantly held his tongue, and they strode along at a breathless pace. There was an unusual concourse of men abroad that night, watching the gloomy face of the sky, and waiting the hour of midnight to kindle the myriad of fires; and as the two tall, dark figures went rapidly by, all supposed it to be a case of life or death. In the eyes of one of the party, perhaps it was; and neither halted till they came once more in sight of the house, whence a short time previously they had carried the death-cold bride. A row of lamps over the door-portals shed a yellow, uncertain light around, while the lights of barges and wherries were sown like stars along the river. “There is the house,” cried Ormiston, and both paused to take breath; “and I am about at the last gasp. I wonder if your pretty mistress would feel grateful if she knew what I have come through to-night for her sweet sake?” “There are no lights,” said Sir Norman, glancing anxiously up at the darkened front of the house; “even the link before the door is unlit. Surely she cannot be there.” “That remains to be seen, though I'm very doubtful about it myself. Ah! whom have we here?” The door of the house in question opened, as he spoke, and a figure--a man's figure, wearing a slouched hat and long, dark cloak, came slowly out. He stopped before the house and looked at it long and earnestly; and, by the twinkling light of the lamps, the friends saw enough of him to know he was young and distinguished looking. “I should not wonder in the least if that were the bridegroom,” whispered Ormiston, maliciously. Sir Norman turned pale with jealousy, and laid his hand on his sword, with a quick and natural impulse to make the bride a widow forthwith. But he checked the desire for an instant as the brigandish-looking gentleman, after a prolonged stare at the premises, stepped up to the watchman, who had given them their information an hour or two before, and who was still at his post. The friends could not be seen, but they could hear, and they did so very earnestly indeed. “Can you tell me, my friend,” began the cloaked unknown, “what has become of the people residing in yonder house?” The watchman, held his lamp up to the face of the interlocutor--a handsome face by the way, what could be seen of it--and indulged himself in a prolonged survey. “Well!” said the gentleman, impatiently, “have you no tongue, fellow? Where are they, I say?” “Blessed if I know,” said the watchman. “I, wasn't set here to keep guard over them was I? It looks like it, though,” said the man in parenthesis; “for this makes twice to-night I've been asked questions about it.” “Ah!” said the gentleman, with a slight start. “Who asked you before, pray?” “Two young gentlemen; lords, I expect, by their dress. Somebody ran screaming out of the house, and they wanted to know what was wrong.” “Well?” said the stranger, breathlessly, “and then?”