Some one lay on it, too--at least, Ormiston thought so; and he went cautiously forward, drew the curtain, and looked down.
"Great Heaven! what a beautiful face!" was his cry, as he bent still further down.
"What the plague is the matter ?" asked Sir Norman, coming forward.
"You have said it," said Ormiston, recoiling.

"The plague is the matter.
There lies one dead of it!" Curiosity proving stronger than fear, Sir Norman stepped forward to look at the corpse.

It was a young girl with a face as lovely as a poet's vision.

That face was like snow, now; and, in its calm, cold majesty, looked as exquisitely perfect as some ancient Grecian statue.

The low, pearly brow, the sweet, beautiful lips, the delicate oval outline of countenance, were perfect.