he opened
in rapid succession, finding nothing but silence and solitude; and
Ormiston--who, upon reflection, chose to follow--ran up a wide and
sweeping staircase at the end of the hall. Sir Norman followed him, and
they came to a hall similar to the one below. A door to the right lay
open; and both entered without ceremony, and looked around.

The room was spacious, and richly furnished. Just enough light stole
through the oriel window at the further end, draped with crimson satin
embroidered with gold, to show it. The floor was of veined wood of many
colors, arranged in fanciful mosaics, and strewn with Turkish rugs and
Persian mats of gorgeous colors. The walls were carved, the ceiling
corniced, and all fretted with gold network and gilded mouldings. On a
couch covered with crimson satin, like the window drapery, lay a cithren
and some loose sheets of music. Near it was a small marble table,
covered with books and drawings, with a decanter of wine and an
exquisite little goblet of Bohemian glass. The marble mantel was strewn
with ornaments of porcelain and alabaster, and a beautifully-carved vase
of Parian marble stood in the centre, filled with brilliant flowers.
A great mirror reflected back the room, and beneath it stood a
toilet-table, strewn with jewels, laces, perfume-bottles, and an array
of costly little feminine trifles such as ladies were as fond of two
centuries ago as they are to-day. Evidently it was a lady's chamber; for
in a recess near the window stood a great quaint carved bedstead, with
curtains and snowy lace, looped back with golden arrows and scarlet
ribbons. Some one lay on it, too--at least, Ormiston thought so; and he
went cautiously forward, drew the curtain, and looked down.

"Great Heaven! what a beautiful face!" was his cry, as he bent still
further down.

"What the plague is the matter?" asked Sir Norman, coming forward.

"You have said it," said Ormiston, recoiling. "The plague is the 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 s