"Dead? she cannot be! Nothing so perfect could die!"

"Look there," said Ormiston pointing to the plague-spot. "There
is the fatal token! For Heaven's sake let us get out of this, or
we will share the same fate before morning!"

But Sir Norman did not move - could not move; he stood there
rooted to the spot by the spell of that lovely, lifeless face.

Usually the plague left its victims hideous, ghastly, discolored,
and covered with blotches; but in this case then was nothing to
mar the perfect beauty of the satin-smooth skin, but that one
dreadful mark.

There Sir Norman stood in his trance, as motionless as if some
genii out of the "Arabian Nights" had suddenly turned him into
stone (a trick they were much addicted to), and destined him to
remain there an ornamental fixture for ever. Ormiston looked at
him distractedly, uncertain whether to try moral suasion or to
take him by the collar and drag him headlong down the stairs,
when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came to his
relief. A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly
rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: "Bring out your dead!
Bring out your dead!"

Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already
almost full on it way to the plague-pit. The driver stopped at
his call, and instantly followed him up stairs, and into the
room. Glancing at the body with the utmost sang-froid, he