The Midnight Queen [8]
matter. There lies one dead of it!"
Curiosity proving stronger than fear, Sir Norman stepped forward
to look at the corpse. It was a young girl with a face as lovely
as a poet's vision. That face was like snow, now; and, in its
calm, cold majesty, looked as exquisitely perfect as some ancient
Grecian statue. The low, pearly brow, the sweet, beautiful lips,
the delicate oval outline of countenance, were perfect. The eyes
were closed, and the long dark lashes rested on the ivory cheeks.
A profusion of shining dark hair fell in elaborate curls over her
neck and shoulders. Her dress was that of a bride; a robe of
white satin brocaded with silver, fairly dazzling in its shining
radiance, and as brief in the article of sleeves and neck as that
of any modern belle. A circlet of pearls were clasped round her
snow-white throat, and bracelets of the same jewels encircled the
snowy taper arms. On her head she wore a bridal wreath and veil
- the former of jewels, the latter falling round her like a cloud
of mist. Everything was perfect, from the wreath and veil to the
tiny sandaled feet and lying there in her mute repose she looked
more like some exquisite piece of sculpture than anything that
had ever lived and moved in this groveling world of ours. But
from one shoulder the dress had been pulled down, and there lay a
great livid purple plague-spot!
"Come away!" said Ormiston, catching his companion by the arm.
"It is death to remain here!"
Sir Norman had been standing like one in a trance, from which
this address roused him, and he grasped Ormiston's shoulder
almost frantically.
"Look there, Ormiston! There lies the very face that sorceress
showed me, fifteen minutes ago, in her infernal caldron! I would
know it at the other end of the world!";
"Are you sure?" said Ormiston, glancing again with new curiosity
at the marble face. "I never saw anything half so beautiful in
all my life; but you see she is dead of the plague."
"Dead? she cannot be! Nothing so perfect could die!"
"Look there," said Ormiston pointing to the plague-spot. "There
is the fatal token! For Heaven's sake let us get out of this, or
we will share the same fate before morning!"
But Sir Norman did not move - could not move; he stood there
rooted to the spot by the spell of that lovely, lifeless face.
Usually the plague left its victims hideous, ghastly, discolored,
and covered with blotches; but in this case then was nothing to
mar the perfect beauty of the satin-smooth skin, but that one
dreadful mark.
There Sir Norman stood in his trance, as motionless as if some
genii out of the "Arabian Nights" had suddenly turned him into
stone (a trick they were much addicted to), and destined him to
remain there an ornamental fixture for ever. Ormiston looked at
him distractedly, uncertain whether to try moral suasion or to
take him by the collar and drag him headlong down the stairs,
when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came to his
relief. A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly
rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: "Bring out your dead!
Bring out your dead!"
Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already
almost full on it way to the plague-pit. The driver stopped at
his call, and instantly followed him up stairs, and into the
room. Glancing at the body with the utmost sang-froid, he
touched the dress, and indifferently remarked:
"A bride, I should say; and an uncommonly handsome one too.
We'll just take her along as she is, and strip these nice things
off the body when we get it to the plague-pit."
So saying, he wrapped her in the sheet, and directing Ormiston to
take hold of the two lower ends, took the upper corners himself,
with the air of a man quite used to that sort of thing. Ormiston
recoiled from touching it; and Sir Norman seeing what they were
about