hrone.

From the first moment of his looking down, Sir Norman had been staring
with all the eyes in his head, undergoing one shock of surprise after
another with the equanimity of a man quite new to it; but now a cry
arose to his lips, and died there in voiceless consternation. For he
recognized the queen--well he might!--he had seen her before, and her
face was the face of Leoline!

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 and 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
lin