He could see them both by
the aforesaid faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's
companion was a wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the
peace of mind of the most jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps
it was not just the thing to hover aloof and listen; but he could
not for the life of him help it; and stand and listen he
accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal conversation might
throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious to see
through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear
the better, he would have had the operation then and there
performed. There was a moment'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.
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