After a moment, he heard the sound of the withdrawing bolts, and his heart beat fast. Surely, his half-hour had not already expired; and if it had, would she be the person to conduct him to death? The door opened; a puff of wind extinguished his candle, but not until he had caught the glimmer of jewels, the shining of gold, and the flutter of long, black hair; and then some one came in. The door was closed; the bolts shot back!--and he was alone with Miranda, the queen. There was no trouble about recognising her, for she carried in her hand a small lamp, which she held up between them, that its rays might fall directly on both faces. Each was rather white, perhaps, and one heart was going faster than it had ever gone before, and that one was decidedly not the queen's. She was dressed exactly as he had seen her, in purple and ermine, in jewels and gold; and strangely out of place she looked there, in her splendid dress and splendid beauty, among the black beetles and rats. Her face might have been a dead, blank wall, or cut out of cold, white stone, for all it expressed; and as she lightly held up her rich robes in one hand, and in the other bore the light, the dark, shining eyes were fixed on his face, and were as barren of interest, eagerness, compassion, tenderness, or any other feeling, as the shining, black glass ones of a wax doll. So they stood looking at each other for some ten seconds or so, and then, still looking full at him, Miranda spoke, and her voice was as clear and emotionless as her eyes, “Well, Sir Norman Kingsley, I have come to see you before you die.” “Madame,” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “you are kind.” “Am I? Perhaps you forget I signed your death-warrant.” “Probably it would have been at the risk of your own life to refuse?” “Nothing of the kind! Not one of them would hurt a hair of my head if I refused to sign fifty death-warrants! Now, am I kind?” “Very likely it would have amounted to the same thing in the end--they would kill me whether you signed it or not; so what does it matter?” “You are mistaken! They would not kill you; at least, not tonight, if I had not signed it. They would have let you live until their next meeting, which will be this night week; and I would have incurred neither risk nor danger by refusing.” Sir Norman glanced round the dungeon and shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know that that prospect is much more inviting than the present one. Even death is preferable to a week's imprisonment in a place like this.” “But in the meantime you might have escaped.” “Madame, look at this stone floor, that stone roof, these solid walls, that barred and massive door; reflect that I am some forty feet under ground--cannot perform impossibilities, and then ask yourself how?” “Sir Norman, have you ever heard of good fairies visiting brave knights and setting them free?” Sir Norman smiled.