molested in. He sought the spiral staircase which La Masque had
spoken of, and, passing carefully from one ancient chamber to another,
stumbling over piles of rubbish and stones as he went, he reached it at
last. Descending gingerly its tortuous steepness, he found himself in
the mouldering vaults, and, as he trod them, his ear was greeted by
the sound of faint and far-off music. Proceeding farther, he heard
distinctly, mingled with it, a murmur of voices and laughter, and,
through the chinks in the broken flags, he perceived a few faint rays
of light. Remembering the directions of La Masque, and feeling intensely
curious, he cautiously knelt down, and examined the loose flagstones
until he found one he could raise; he pushed it partly aside, and, lying
flat on the stones, with his face to the aperture, Sir Norman beheld a
most wonderful sight.

CHAPTER VI. LA MASQUE

"Love is like a dizziness," says the old song. Love is something
else--it is the most selfish feeling in existence. Of course, I don't
allude to the fraternal or the friendly, or any other such nonsensical
old-fashioned trash that artless people still believe in, but to the
real genuine article that Adam felt for Eve when he first saw her, and
which all who read this--above the innocent and unsusceptible age of
twelve--have experienced. And the fancy and the reality are so much
alike, that they amount to about the same thing. The former perhaps,
may be a little short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation
while it lasts as its more enduring sister. Love is said to be
blind, and it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its
victims--an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid in the
slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or waking, but one
object, and that alone.

I don't know whether these were Mr. Malcolm or Ormiston's thoughts, as
he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms across his chest to
await the shining of his day-star. In fact, I am pretty sure they were
not: young gentlemen, as a general thing, not being any more given to
profound moralizing in the reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles
II., than they are at the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was
his bosom friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of sight, than
he forgot him as totally as if he had never known that distinguished
individual. His many and deep afflictions, his love, his anguish, and
his provocati