Countess drew up, and was indignantly silent.

The King proceeded--"No sooner is Peveril in Newgate, than, by the
account of the venerable little gentleman, this merry maiden is even
there also for company. Now, without inquiring how she got in, I think
charitably that she had better taste than to come there on the dwarf's
account.--Ah ha! I think Master Julian is touched in conscience!"

Julian did indeed start as the King spoke, for it reminded him of the
midnight visit in his cell.

The King looked fixedly at him, and then proceeded--"Well, gentlemen,
Peveril is carried to his trial, and is no sooner at liberty, than we
find him in the house where the Duke of Buckingham was arranging what he
calls a musical mask.--Egad, I hold it next to certain, that this wench
put the change on his Grace, and popt the poor dwarf into the bass-viol,
reserving her own more precious hours to be spent with Master Julian
Peveril.--Think you not so, Sir Christian, you, the universal referee?
Is there any truth in this conjecture?"

Christian stole a glance at Zarah, and read that in her eye which
embarrassed him. "He did not know," he said; "he had indeed engaged this
unrivalled performer to take the proposed part in the mask; and she
was to have come forth in the midst of a shower of lambent fire, very
artificially prepared with perfumes, to overcome the smell of the
powder; but he knew not why--excepting that she was wilful and
capricious, like all great geniuses--she had certainly spoiled the
concert by cramming in that more bulky dwarf."

"I should like," said the King, "to see this little maiden stand forth,
and bear witness, in such manner as she can express herself, on
this mysterious matter. Can any one here understand her mode of
communication?"

Christian said, he knew something of it since he had become acquainted
with her in London. The Countess spoke not till the King asked her,
and then owned dryly, that she had necessarily some habitual means of
intercourse with one who had been immediately about her person for so
many years.

"I should think," said Charles, "that this same Master Peveril has the
more direct key to her language, after all we have heard."

The King looked first at Peveril, who blushed like a maiden at the
inference which the King's remark implied, and then suddenly turned his
eyes on the supposed mute, on whose cheek a faint colour was dying away.
A moment afterwards, at a signal from the Countess