As she mounted the stairs, she stood there for a moment crowned and sceptred, before sitting down, and in that moment he recognized the whole scene.That gorgeous room and its gorgeous inmates; that regal throne and its regal owner, all became palpable as the sun at noonday; that slender, exquisite figure, robed in royal purple and ermine; the uncovered neck and arms, snowy and perfect, ablaze with jewels; that lovely face, like snow, like marble, in its whiteness end calm, with the great, dark, earnest eyes looking out, and the waving wealth of hair falling around it.It was the very scene, and room, and vision, that La Masque had shown him in the caldron, and that face was the face of Leoline, and the earl's page.
Could he be dreaming? Was he sane or mad, or were the three really one?
While he looked, the beautiful queen bowed low, and amid the profoundest and most respectful silence, took her seat.In her robes of purple, wearing the glittering crown, sceptre in hand, throned and canopied, royally beautiful she looked indeed, and a most vivid contrast to the gentleman near her, seated very much at his ease, on the lower throne.The contrast was not of dress - for his outward man was resplendent to look at; but in figure and face, or grace and dignity, he was a very mean specimen of the lords of creation, indeed.In stature, he scarcely reached to the queen's royal shoulder, but made up sideways what he wanted in length - being the breadth of two common men; his head was in proportion to his width, and was decorated with a wig of long, flowing, flaxen hair, that scarcely harmonized with a profusion of the article whiskers, in hue most unmitigated black;his eyes were small, keen, bright, and piercing, and glared on the assembled company as they had done half an hour before on Sir Norman Kingsley, in the bar-room of the Golden Crown; for the royal little man was no other than Caliban, the dwarf.Behind the thrones the flock of floral angels grouped themselves;archbishop, prime minister, and embassadors, took their stand within the lines of the soldiery, and the music softly and impressively died sway in the distance; dead silence reigned.
"My lord Duke," began the queen, in the very voice he had heard at the plague-pit, as she turned to the stylish individual next the archbishop, "come forward and read us the roll of mortality since our last meeting.?
His grace, the duke, instantly stepped forward, bowing so low that nothing was seen of him for a brief space, but the small of his back, and when he reared himself up, after this convulsion of nature, Sir Norman beheld a face not entirely new to him.At first, he could not imagine where he had seen it, but speedily she recollected it was the identical face of the highwayman who had beaten an inglorious retreat from him and Count L'Estrange, that very night.This ducat robber drew forth a roll of parchment, and began reading, in lachrymose tones, a select litany of defunct gentlemen, with hifalutin titles who had departed this life during the present week.Most of them had gone with the plague, but a few had died from natural causes, and among these were the Earls of Craven and Ashley.
