Sir Norman's surmises had been correct.

The green table of the parliament-house of the midnight court had been converted, by the aid of cushions and pillows, into an extempore couch; and half-buried in their downy depths lay Miranda, the queen.

The sweeping robe of royal purple, trimmed with ermine, the circlets of jewels on arms, bosom, and head, she still wore, and the beautiful face was whiter than fallen snow.
Yet she was not dead, as Sir Norman had dreaded; for the dark eyes were open, and were fixed with an unutterable depth of melancholy on vacancy.
Her arms lay helplessly by her side, and someone, the court physician probably, was bending over her and feeling her pulse.
As the count's eyes fell upon her, he started back, and grasped Sir Norman's arm with consternation.
"Good heavens, Kingsley!" he cried; "it is Leoline, herself!" In his excitement he had spoken so loud, that in the momentary silence that followed the physician's direction, his voice had rung through the room, and drew every eye upon them.
"We are seen, we are seen!" shouted Hubert, and as he spoke, a terrible cry idled the room.

In an instant every sword leaped from its scabbard, and the shriek of the startled women rang appallingly out on the air.
Sir Norman drew his sword, too; but the count, with his eyes yet fixed on Miranda, still held him by the arm, and excitedly exclaimed, "Tell me, tell me, is it Leoline ?" "Leoline! No--how could it be Leoline?
They look alike, that's all.

Draw your sword, count, and defend yourself; we are discovered, and they are upon us!" "We are upon them, you mean, and it is they who are discovered," said the count, doing as directed, and stepping boldly in.