“I think not. I have a word to say to La Masque, and you and she kept talking so busily, I had no chance to put it in.” Sir Norman laughed. “Besides, I have no doubt it is a word you would not like to utter in the presence of a third party, even though that third party be your friend and Pythias, Kingsley. Do you mean to stay here like a plague-sentinel until she returns?” “Possibly; or if I get tired I may set out in search of her. When do you return?” “The Fates, that seem to make a foot-ball of my best affections, and kick them as they please, only know. If nothing happens--which, being interpreted, means, if I am still in the land of the living--I shall surely be back by daybreak.” “And I shall be anxious about that time to hear the result of your night's adventure; so where shall we meet?” “Why not here? it is as good a place as any.” “With all my heart. Where do you propose getting a horse?” “At the King's Arms--but a stones throw from here. Farewell.” “Good-night, and God speed you!” said Ormiston. And wrapping his cloak close about him, he leaned against the doorway, and, watching the dancing lights on the river, prepared to await the return of La Masque. With his head full of the adventures and misadventures of the night, Sir Norman walked thoughtfully on until he reached the King's Arms--a low inn on the bank of the river. To his dismay he found the house shut up, and bearing the dismal mark and inscription of the pestilence. While he stood contemplating it in perplexity, a watchman, on guard before another plague-stricken house, advanced and informed him that the whole family had perished of the disease, and that the landlord himself, the last survivor, had been carried off not twenty minutes before to the plague-pit. “But,” added the man, seeing Sir Norman's look of annoyance, and being informed what he wanted, “there are two or three horses around there in the stable, and you may as well help yourself, for if you don't take them, somebody else will.”