nt's silence after the two entered the portal, during
which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and commanding, motionless as a
marble column; and the little withered old specimen of humanity beside
her stood gazing up at her with something between fear and fascination.

"Do you know what has become of your charge, Prudence?" asked the low,
vibrating voice of La Masque, at last.

"How could I, madame? You know I fled from the house, and I dared not go
back. Perhaps she is there still."

"Perhaps she is not? Do you suppose that sharp shriek of yours was
unheard? No; she was found; and what do you suppose has become of her?"

The old woman looked up, and seemed to read in the dark, stern figure,
and the deep solemn voice, the fatal truth. She wrung her hands with a
sort of cry.

"Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and buried her
in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress."

"If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of
running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened," said La
Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.

"Madame," sobbed the old woman, who was crying, "she was dying of the
plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her in spite of
me."

"She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive as you
or I at this moment."

"Madame, I left her dead!" said the old woman positively.

"Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in that
state she was found and carried to the plague-pit."

The old woman stood silent for a moment, with a face of intense horror,
and then she clasped both hands with a wild cry.

"O my God! And they buried her alive--buried her alive in that dreadful
plague-pit!"

La Masque, leaning against a pillar, stood unmoved; and her voice, when
she spoke, was as coldly sweet as modern ice-cream.

"Not exactly. She was not buried at all, as I happen to know. But when
did you discover that she had the plague, and how could she possibly
have caught it?"

"That I do not know, madam. She seemed well enough all day, though not
in such high spirits as a bride should be. Toward evening she complained
of a headache and a feeling of faintness; but I thought nothing of it,
and helped her to dress for the bridal. Before it was over, the headache
and faintness grew worse, and I gave her wine, and still suspected
nothing. The last time I came in, she had grown so much worse, that
notwithstan