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Title: Old Saint Paul's
       A Tale of the Plague and the Fire

Author: William Harrison Ainsworth

Release Date: February 14, 2004 [EBook #11082]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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OLD SAINT PAUL'S

  _A TALE OF THE PLAGUE
  AND THE FIRE_


  BY
  WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH




The portion of the ensuing Tale relating to the Grocer of Wood-street,
and his manner of victualling his house, and shutting up himself and his
family within it during the worst part of the Plague of 1665, is founded
on a narrative, which I have followed pretty closely in most of its
details, contained in a very rare little volume, entitled,
"_Preparations against the Plague, both of Soul and Body_," the
authorship of which I have no hesitation in assigning to DEFOE. Indeed,
I venture to pronounce it his masterpiece. It is strange that this
matchless performance should have hitherto escaped attention, and that
it should not have been reprinted with some one of the countless
impressions of the "_History of the Plague of London_," to which it
forms an almost necessary accompaniment. The omission, I trust, will be
repaired by Mr. HAZLITT the younger, DEFOE'S last and best editor, in
his valuable edition of the works of that great novelist and political
writer, now in the course of publication. It may be added, that a case
precisely similar to that of the Grocer, and attended with the same
happy results, occurred during the Plague of Marseilles, in 1720.

For my acquaintance with this narrative, as well as for the suggestion
of its application to the present purpose, I am indebted to my friend,
Mr. JAMES CROSSLEY, of Manchester.

KENSAL MANOR HOUSE, HARROW ROAD, _November_ 30, 1841.




CONTENTS.


BOOK THE FIRST--April, 1665.

1.  The Grocer of Wood-street and his Family.

2.  The Coffin-maker.

3.  The Gamester and the Bully.

4.  The Interview.

5.  The Pomander-box.

6.  The Libertine Punished.

7.  The Plague Nurse.

8.  The Mosaical Rods.

9.  The Miniature.

10. The Duel.


BOOK THE SECOND.--May, 1665.

1.  The Progress of the Pestilence.

2.  In what Manner the Grocer Victualled his House.

3.  The Quack Doctors.

4.  The Two Watchmen.

5.  The Blind Piper and his Daughter.

6.  Old London from Old Saint Paul's.

7.  Paul's Walk.

8.  The Amulet.

9.  How Leonard was cured of the Plague.

10. The Pest-house in Finsbury Fields.

11. How the Grocer shut up his House.


BOOK THE THIRD.--June, 1665.

1.  The Imprisoned Family.

2.  How Fires were Lighted in the Streets.

3.  The Dance of Death.

4.  The Plague-pit.

5.  How Saint Paul's was used as a Pest-house.

6.  The Departure.

7.  The Journey.

8.  Ashdown Lodge.

9.  Kingston Lisle.


BOOK THE FOURTH.--September, 1665.

1.  The Plague at its Height.

2.  The Second Plague-pit.

3.  The House in Nicholas-lane.

4.  The Trials of Amabel.

5.  The Marriage and its Consequences.

6.  The Certificate.


BOOK THE FIFTH.--December, 1665.

1.  The Decline of the Plague.

2.  The Midnight Meeting.


BOOK THE SIXTH.--September, 1666.

1.  The Fire-ball.

2.  The First Night of the Fire.

3.  Progress of the Fire.

4.  Leonard's Interview with the King.

5.  How Leonard saved the King's Life.

6.  How the Grocer's House was Burnt.

7.  The Burning of Saint Paul's.

8.  How Leonard rescued the Lady Isabella.

9.  What befel Chowles and Judith in the Vaults of Saint Faith's.

10. Conclusion.




OLD SAINT PAUL'S.



BOOK THE FIRST.

APRIL, 1665.


I.

THE GROCER OF WOOD-STREET AND HIS FAMILY.

One night, at the latter end of April, 1665, the family of a citizen of
London carrying on an extensive business as a grocer in Wood-street,
Cheapside, were assembled, according to custom, at prayer. The grocer's
name was Stephen Bloundel. His family consisted of his wife, three sons,
and two daughters. He had, moreover, an apprentice; an elderly female
serving as cook; her son, a young man about five-and-twenty, filling the
place of porter to the shop and general assistant; and a kitchen-maid.
The whole household attended; for the worthy grocer, being a strict
observer of his religious duties, as well as a rigid disciplinarian in
other respects, suffered no one to be absent, on any plea whatever,
except indisposition, from morning and evening devotions; and these were
always performed at stated times. In fact, the establishment was
conducted with the regularity of clockwork, it being the aim of its
master not to pass a single hour of the day unprofitably.

The ordinary prayers gone through, Stephen Bloundel offered up along and
fervent supplication to the Most High for protection against the
devouring pestilence with which the city was then scourged. He
acknowledged that this terrible visitation had been justly brought upon
it by the wickedness of its inhabitants; that they deserved their doom,
dreadful though it was; that, like the dwellers in Jerusalem before it
was given up to ruin and desolation, they "had mocked the messengers of
God and despised His word;" that in the language of the prophet, "they
had refused to hearken, and pulled away the shoulder, and stopped their
ears that they should not hear; yea, had made their heart like an
adamant stone, lest they should hear the law and the words which the
Lord of Hosts had sent in his spirit by the former prophets." He
admitted that great sins require great chastisement, and that the sins
of London were enormous; that it was filled with strifes, seditions,
heresies, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and every kind of
abomination; that the ordinances of God were neglected, and all manner
of vice openly practised; that, despite repeated warnings and
afflictions less grievous than the present, these vicious practices had
been persisted in. All this he humbly acknowledged. But he implored a
gracious Providence, in consideration of his few faithful servants, to
spare the others yet a little longer, and give them a last chance of
repentance and amendment; or, if this could not be, and their utter
extirpation was inevitable, that the habitations of the devout might be
exempted from the general destruction--might be places of refuge, as
Zoar was to Lot. He concluded by earnestly exhorting those around him to
keep constant watch upon themselves; not to murmur at God's dealings and
dispensations; but so to comport themselves, that "they might be able to
stand in the day of wrath, in the day of death, and in the day of
judgment." The exhortation produced a powerful effect upon its hearers,
and they arose, some with serious, others with terrified looks.

Before proceeding further, it may be desirable to show in what manner
the dreadful pestilence referred to by the grocer commenced, and how far
its ravages had already extended. Two years before, namely, in 1663,
more than a third of the population of Amsterdam was carried off by a
desolating plague. Hamburgh was also grievously afflicted about the same
time, and in the same manner. Notwithstanding every effort to cut off
communication with these states, the insidious disease found its way
into England by means of some bales of merchandise, as it was suspected,
at the latter end of the year 1664, when two persons died suddenly, with
undoubted symptoms of the distemper, in Westminster. Its next appearance
was at a house in Long Acre, and its victims two Frenchmen, who had
brought goods from the Levant. Smothered for a short time, like a fire
upon which coals had been heaped, it broke out with fresh fury in
several places.

The consternation now began. The whole city was panic-stricken: nothing
was talked of but the plague--nothing planned but means of arresting its
progress--one grim and ghastly idea possessed the minds of all. Like a
hideous phantom stalking the streets at noon-day, and scaring all in its
path, Death took his course through London, and selected his prey at
pleasure. The alarm was further increased by the predictions confidently
made as to the vast numbers who would be swept away by the visitation;
by the prognostications of astrologers; by the prophesyings of
enthusiasts; by the denunciations of preachers, and by the portents and
prodigies reported to have occurred. During the long and frosty winter
preceding this fatal year, a comet appeared in the heavens, the sickly
colour of which was supposed to forebode the judgment about to follow.
Blazing stars and other meteors, of a lurid hue and strange and
preternatural shape, were likewise seen. The sun was said to have set in
streams of blood, and the moon to have shown without reflecting a
shadow; grisly shapes appeared at night--strange clamours and groans
were heard in the air--hearses, coffins, and heaps of unburied dead were
discovered in the sky, and great cakes and clots of blood were found in
the Tower moat; while a marvellous double tide occurred at London
Bridge. All these prodigies were currently reported, and in most cases
believed.

The severe frost, before noticed, did not break up till the end of
February, and with the thaw the plague frightfully increased in
violence. From Drury-lane it spread along Holborn, eastward as far as
Great Turnstile, and westward to Saint Giles's Pound, and so along the
Tyburn-road. Saint Andrew's, Holborn, was next infected; and as this was
a much more populous parish than the former, the deaths were more
numerous within it. For a while, the disease was checked by Fleet Ditch;
it then leaped this narrow boundary, and ascending the opposite hill,
carried fearful devastation into Saint James's, Clerkenwell. At the same
time, it attacked Saint Bride's; thinned the ranks of the thievish horde
haunting Whitefriars, and proceeding in a westerly course, decimated
Saint Clement Danes.

Hitherto, the city had escaped. The destroyer had not passed Ludgate or
Newgate, but environed the walls like a besieging enemy. A few days,
however, before the opening of this history, fine weather having
commenced, the horrible disease began to grow more rife, and laughing
all precautions and impediments to scorn, broke out in the very heart of
the stronghold--namely, in Bearbinder-lane, near Stock's Market, where
nine persons died.

At a season so awful, it may be imagined how an impressive address, like
that delivered by the grocer, would be received by those who saw in the
pestilence, not merely an overwhelming scourge from which few could
escape, but a direct manifestation of the Divine displeasure. Not a word
was said. Blaize Shotterel, the porter, and old Josyna, his mother,
together with Patience, the other woman-servant, betook themselves
silently, and with troubled countenances, to the kitchen. Leonard Holt,
the apprentice, lingered for a moment to catch a glance from the soft
blue eyes of Amabel, the grocer's eldest daughter (for even the plague
was a secondary consideration with him when she was present), and
failing in the attempt, he heaved a deep sigh, which was luckily laid to
the account of the discourse he had just listened to by his
sharp-sighted master, and proceeded to the shop, where he busied himself
in arranging matters for the night.

Having just completed his twenty-first year, and his apprenticeship
being within a few months of its expiration, Leonard Holt began to think
of returning to his native town of Manchester, where he intended to
settle, and where he had once fondly hoped the fair Amabel would
accompany him, in the character of his bride. Not that he had ever
ventured to declare his passion, nor that he had received sufficient
encouragement to make it matter of certainty that if he did so declare
himself, he should be accepted; but being both "proper and tall," and
having tolerable confidence in his good looks, he had made himself, up
to a short time prior to his introduction to the reader, quite easy on
the point.

His present misgivings were occasioned by Amabel's altered manner
towards him, and by a rival who, he had reason to fear, had completely
superseded him in her good graces. Brought up together from an early
age, the grocer's daughter and the young apprentice had at first
regarded each other as brother and sister. By degrees, the feeling
changed; Amabel became more reserved, and held little intercourse with
Leonard, who, busied with his own concerns, thought little about her.
But, as he grew towards manhood, he could not remain insensible to her
extraordinary beauty--for extraordinary it was, and such as to attract
admiration wherever she went, so that the "Grocer's Daughter" became the
toast among the ruffling gallants of the town, many of whom sought to
obtain speech with her. Her parents, however, were far too careful to
permit any such approach. Amabel's stature was lofty; her limbs slight,
but exquisitely symmetrical; her features small, and cast in the most
delicate mould; her eyes of the softest blue; and her hair luxuriant,
and of the finest texture and richest brown. Her other beauties must be
left to the imagination; but it ought not to be omitted that she was
barely eighteen, and had all the freshness, the innocence, and vivacity
of that most charming period of woman's existence. No wonder she
ravished every heart. No wonder, in an age when love-making was more
general even than now, that she was beset by admirers. No wonder her
father's apprentice became desperately enamoured of her, and
proportionately jealous.

And this brings us to his rival. On the 10th of April, two gallants,
both richly attired, and both young and handsome, dismounted before the
grocer's door, and, leaving their steeds to the care of their
attendants, entered the shop. They made sundry purchases of conserves,
figs, and other dried fruit, chatted familiarly with the grocer, and
tarried so long, that at last he began to suspect they must have some
motive. All at once, however, they disagreed on some slight
matter--Bloundel could not tell what, nor, perhaps, could the
disputants, even if their quarrel was not preconcerted--high words
arose, and in another moment, swords were drawn, and furious passes
exchanged. The grocer called to his eldest son, a stout youth of
nineteen, and to Leonard Holt, to separate them. The apprentice seized
his cudgel--no apprentice in those days was without one--and rushed
towards the combatants, but before he could interfere, the fray was
ended. One of them had received a thrust through the sword arm, and his
blade dropping, his antagonist declared himself satisfied, and with a
grave salute walked off. The wounded man wrapped a lace handkerchief
round his arm, but immediately afterwards complained of great faintness.
Pitying his condition, and suspecting no harm, the grocer led him into
an inner room, where restoratives were offered by Mrs. Bloundel and her
daughter Amabel, both of whom had been alarmed by the noise of the
conflict. In a short time, the wounded man was so far recovered as to be
able to converse with his assistants, especially the younger one; and
the grocer having returned to the shop, his discourse became so very
animated and tender, that Mrs. Bloundel deemed it prudent to give her
daughter a hint to retire. Amabel reluctantly obeyed, for the young
stranger was so handsome, so richly dressed, had such a captivating
manner, and so distinguished an air, that she was strongly prepossessed
in his favour. A second look from her mother, however, caused her to
disappear, nor did she return. After waiting with suppressed anxiety for
some time, the young gallant departed, overwhelming the good dame with
his thanks, and entreating permission to call again. This was
peremptorily refused, but, notwithstanding the interdiction, he came on
the following day. The grocer chanced to be out at the time, and the
gallant, who had probably watched him go forth, deriding the
remonstrances of the younger Bloundel and Leonard, marched straight to
the inner room, where he found the dame and her daughter. They were much
disconcerted at his appearance, and the latter instantly rose with the
intention of retiring, but the gallant caught her arm and detained her.

"Do not fly me, Amabel," he cried, in an impassioned tone, "but suffer
me to declare the love I have for you. I cannot live without you."

Amabel, whose neck and cheeks were crimsoned with blushes, cast down her
eyes before the ardent regards of the gallant, and endeavoured to
withdraw her hand.

"One word only," he continued, "and I release you. Am I wholly
indifferent to you! Answer me--yes or no!"

"Do _not_ answer him, Amabel," interposed her mother. "He is deceiving
you. He loves you not. He would ruin you. This is the way with all these
court butterflies. Tell him you hate him, child, and bid him begone."

"But I cannot tell him an untruth, mother," returned Amabel, artlessly,
"for I do _not_ hate him."

"Then you love me," cried the young man, falling on his knees, and
pressing her hand to his lips. "Tell me so, and make me the happiest of
men."

But Amabel had now recovered from the confusion into which she had been
thrown, and, alarmed at her own indiscretion, forcibly withdrew her
hand, exclaiming in a cold tone, and with much natural dignity, "Arise,
sir. I will not tolerate these freedoms. My mother is right--you have
some ill design."

"By my soul, no!" cried the gallant, passionately. "I love you, and
would make you mine."

"No doubt," remarked Mrs. Bloundel, contemptuously, "but not by
marriage."

"Yes, by marriage," rejoined the gallant, rising. "If she will consent,
I will wed her forthwith."

Both Amabel and her mother looked surprised at the young man's
declaration, which was uttered with a fervour that seemed to leave no
doubt of its sincerity; but the latter, fearing some artifice, replied,
"If what you say is true, and you really love my daughter as much as you
pretend, this is not the way to win her; for though she can have no
pretension to wed with one of your seeming degree, nor is it for her
happiness that she should, yet, were she sought by the proudest noble in
the land, she shall never, if I can help it, be lightly won. If your
intentions are honourable, you must address yourself, in the first
place, to her father, and if he agrees (which I much doubt) that you
shall become her suitor, I can make no objection. Till this is settled,
I must pray you to desist from further importunity."

"And so must I," added Amabel. "I cannot give you a hope till you have
spoken to my father."

"Be it so," replied the gallant. "I will tarry here till his return."

So saying, he was about to seat himself, but Mrs. Bloundel prevented
him.

"I cannot permit this, sir," she cried. "Your tarrying here may, for
aught I know, bring scandal upon my house;--I am sure it will be
disagreeable to my husband. I am unacquainted with your name and
condition. You may be a man of rank. You may be one of the profligate
and profane crew who haunt the court. You may be the worst of them all,
my Lord Rochester himself. He is about your age, I have heard, and
though a mere boy in years, is a veteran in libertinism. But, whoever
you are, and whatever your rank and station may be, unless your
character will bear the strictest scrutiny, I am certain Stephen
Bloundel will never consent to your union with his daughter."

"Nay, mother," observed Amabel, "you judge the gentleman unjustly. I am
sure he is neither a profligate gallant himself, nor a companion of
such--especially of the wicked Earl of Rochester."

"I pretend to be no better than I am," replied the young man, repressing
a smile that rose to his lips at Mrs. Bloundel's address; "but I shall
reform when I am married. It would be impossible to be inconstant to so
fair a creature as Amabel. For my rank, I have none. My condition is
that of a private gentleman,--my name, Maurice Wyvil."

"What you say of yourself, Mr. Maurice Wyvil, convinces me you will meet
with a decided refusal from my husband," returned Mrs. Bloundel.

"I trust not," replied Wyvil, glancing tenderly at Amabel. "If I should
be so fortunate as to gain _his_ consent, have I _yours_?"

"It is too soon to ask that question," she rejoined, blushing deeply.
"And now, sir, you must go, indeed, you must. You distress my mother."

"If I do not distress _you_, I will stay," resumed Wyvil, with an
imploring look.

"You _do_ distress me," she answered, averting her gaze.

"Nay, then, I must tear myself away," he rejoined. "I shall return
shortly, and trust to find your father less flinty-hearted than he is
represented."

He would have clasped Amabel in his arms, and perhaps snatched a kiss,
if her mother had not rushed between them.

"No more familiarities, sir," she cried angrily; "no court manners here.
If you look to wed my daughter, you must conduct yourself more
decorously; but I can tell you, you have no chance--none whatever."

"Time will show," replied Wyvil, audaciously. "You had better give her
to me quietly, and save me the trouble of carrying her off,--for have
her I will."

"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Bloundel, in accents of alarm; "now his wicked
intentions are out."

"Fear nothing, mother," observed Amabel, coldly. "He will scarcely carry
me off without my own consent; and I am not likely to sacrifice myself
for one who holds me in such light esteem."

"Forgive me, Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, in a voice so penitent that it
instantly effaced her displeasure; "I meant not to offend. I spoke only
the language of distraction. Do not dismiss me thus, or my death will
lie at your door."

"I should be sorry for that," she replied; "but, inexperienced as I am,
I feel this is not the language of real regard, but of furious passion."

A dark shade passed over Wyvil's handsome features, and the almost
feminine beauty by which they were characterized gave place to a fierce
and forbidding expression. Controlling himself by a powerful effort, he
replied, with forced calmness, "Amabel, you know not what it is to love.
I will not stir hence till I have seen your father."

"We will see that, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bloundel, angrily. "What, ho!
son Stephen! Leonard Holt! I say. This gentleman _will_ stay here,
whether I like or not. Show him forth."

"That I will, right willingly," replied the apprentice, rushing before
the younger Bloundel, and flourishing his formidable cudgel. "Out with
you, sir! Out with you!"

"Not at your bidding you, saucy knave," rejoined Wyvil, laying his hand
upon his sword: "and if it were not for the presence of your mistress
and her lovely daughter, I would crop your ears for your insolence."

"Their presence shall not prevent me from making my cudgel and your
shoulders acquainted, if you do not budge," replied the apprentice,
sturdily.

Enraged by the retort, Wyvil would have drawn his sword, but a blow on
the arm disabled him.

"Plague on you, fellow!" he exclaimed; "you shall rue this to the last
day of your existence."

"Threaten those who heed you," replied Leonard, about to repeat the
blow.

"Do him no further injury!" cried Amabel, arresting his hand, and
looking with the greatest commiseration at Wyvil. "You have dealt with
him far too rudely already."

"Since I have your sympathy, sweet Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, "I care not
what rude treatment I experience from this churl. We shall soon meet
again." And bowing to her, he strode out of the room.

Leonard followed him to the shop-door, hoping some further pretext for
quarrel would arise, but he was disappointed. Wyvil took no notice of
him, and proceeded at a slow pace towards Cheapside.

Half an hour afterwards, Stephen Bloundel came home. On being informed
of what had occurred, he was greatly annoyed, though he concealed his
vexation, and highly applauded his daughter's conduct. Without further
comment, he proceeded about his business, and remained in the shop till
it was closed. Wyvil did not return, and the grocer tried to persuade
himself they should see nothing more of him. Before Amabel retired to
rest, he imprinted a kiss on her snowy brow, and said, in a tone of the
utmost kindness, "You have never yet deceived me, child, and I hope
never will. Tell me truly, do you take any interest in this young
gallant?"

Amabel blushed deeply.

"I should not speak the truth, father," she rejoined, after a pause, "if
I were to say I do not."

"I am sorry for it," replied Bloundel, gravely. "But you would not be
happy with him. I am sure he is unprincipled and profligate:--you must
forget him."

"I will try to do so," sighed Amabel. And the conversation dropped.

On the following day, Maurice Wyvil entered the grocer's shop. He was
more richly attired than before, and there was a haughtiness in his
manner which he had not hitherto assumed. What passed between him and
Bloundel was not known, for the latter never spoke of it; but the result
may be gathered from the fact that the young gallant was not allowed an
interview with the grocer's daughter.

From this moment the change previously noticed took place in Amabel's
demeanour towards Leonard. She seemed scarcely able to endure his
presence, and sedulously avoided his regards. From being habitually gay
and cheerful, she became pensive and reserved. Her mother more than once
caught her in tears; and it was evident, from many other signs, that
Wyvil completely engrossed her thoughts. Fully aware of this, Mrs.
Bloundel said nothing of it to her husband, because the subject was
painful to him; and not supposing the passion deeply rooted, she hoped
it would speedily wear away. But she was mistaken--the flame was kept
alive in Amabel's breast in a manner of which she was totally ignorant.
Wyvil found means to deceive the vigilance of the grocer and his wife,
but he could not deceive the vigilance of a jealous lover. Leonard
discovered that his mistress had received a letter. He would not betray
her, but he determined to watch her narrowly.

Accordingly, when she went forth one morning in company with her younger
sister (a little girl of some five years old), he made an excuse to
follow them, and, keeping within sight, perceived them enter Saint
Paul's Cathedral, the mid aisle of which was then converted into a
public walk, and generally thronged with town gallants, bullies,
bona-robas, cut-purses, and rogues of every description. In short, it
was the haunt of the worst of characters of the metropolis. When,
therefore, Amabel entered this structure, Leonard felt certain it was to
meet her lover. Rushing forward, he saw her take her course through the
crowd, and attract general attention from her loveliness--but he nowhere
discerned Maurice Wyvil.

Suddenly, however, she struck off to the right, and halted near one of
the pillars, and the apprentice, advancing, detected his rival behind
it. He was whispering a few words in her ear, unperceived by her sister.
Maddened by the sight, Leonard hurried towards them, but before he could
reach the spot Wyvil was gone, and Amabel, though greatly confused,
looked at the same time so indignant, that he almost regretted his
precipitation.

"You will, of course, make known to my father what you have just seen?"
she said in a low tone.

"If you will promise not to meet that gallant again without my
knowledge, I will not," replied Leonard.

After a moment's reflection, Amabel gave the required promise, and they
returned to Wood-street together. Satisfied she would not break her
word, the apprentice became more easy, and as a week elapsed, and
nothing was said to him on the subject, he persuaded himself she would
not attempt to meet her lover again.

Things were in this state at the opening of our tale, but upon the night
in question, Leonard fancied he discerned some agitation in Amabel's
manner towards him, and in consequence of this notion, he sought to meet
her gaze, as before related, after prayers. While trying to distract his
thoughts by arranging sundry firkins of butter, and putting other things
in order, he heard a light footstep behind him, and turning at the
sound, beheld Amabel.

"Leonard," she whispered, "I promised to tell you when I should next
meet Maurice Wyvil. He will be here to-night." And without giving him
time to answer, she retired.

For awhile, Leonard remained in a state almost of stupefaction,
repeating to himself, as if unwilling to believe them, the words he had
just heard. He had not recovered when the grocer entered the shop, and
noticing his haggard looks, kindly inquired if he felt unwell. The
apprentice returned an evasive answer, and half determined to relate all
he knew to his master, but the next moment he changed his intention,
and, influenced by that chivalric feeling which always governs those, of
whatever condition, who love profoundly, resolved not to betray the
thoughtless girl, but to trust to his own ingenuity to thwart the
designs of his rival, and preserve her Acting upon this resolution, he
said he had a slight headache, and instantly resumed his occupation.

At nine o'clock, the whole family assembled at supper. The board was
plentifully though plainly spread, but the grocer observed, with some
uneasiness, that his apprentice, who had a good appetite in ordinary,
ate little or nothing. He kept his eye constantly upon him, and became
convinced from his manner that something ailed him. Not having any
notion of the truth, and being filled with apprehensions of the plague,
his dread was that Leonard was infected by the disease. Supper was
generally the pleasantest meal of the day at the grocer's house, but on
this occasion it passed off cheerlessly enough, and a circumstance
occurred at its close which threw all into confusion and distress.
Before relating this, however, we must complete our description of the
family under their present aspect.

Tall, and of a spare frame, with good features, somewhat austere in
their expression, and of the cast which we are apt to term precise and
puritanical, but tempered with great benevolence, Stephen Bloundel had a
keen, deep-seated eye, overshadowed by thick brows, and suffered his
long-flowing grey hair to descend over his shoulders. His forehead was
high and ample, his chin square and well defined, and his general
appearance exceedingly striking. In age he was about fifty. His
integrity and fairness of dealing, never once called in question for a
period of thirty years, had won him the esteem of all who knew him;
while his prudence and economy had enabled him, during that time, to
amass a tolerable fortune. His methodical habits, and strong religious
principles, have been already mentioned. His eldest son was named after
him, and resembled him both in person and character, promising to tread
in his footsteps. The younger sons require little notice at present. One
was twelve, and the other only half that age; but both appeared to
inherit many of their father's good qualities. Basil, the elder, was a
stout, well-grown lad, and had never known a day's ill-health; while
Hubert, the younger, was thin, delicate, and constantly ailing.

Mrs. Bloundel was a specimen of a city dame of the best kind. She had a
few pardonable vanities, which no arguments could overcome--such as a
little ostentation in dress--a little pride in the neatness of her
house--and a good deal in the beauty of her children, especially in that
of Amabel--as well as in the wealth and high character of her husband,
whom she regarded as the most perfect of human beings. These slight
failings allowed for, nothing but good remained. Her conduct was
exemplary in all the relations of life. The tenderest of mothers, and
the most affectionate of wives, she had as much genuine piety and
strictness of moral principles as her husband. Short, plump, and
well-proportioned, though somewhat, perhaps, exceeding the rules of
symmetry--she had a rich olive complexion, fine black eyes, beaming with
good nature, and an ever-laughing mouth, ornamented by a beautiful set
of teeth. To wind up all, she was a few years younger than her husband.

Amabel has already been described. The youngest girl, Christiana, was a
pretty little dove-eyed, flaxen-haired child, between four and five
years old, and shared the fate of most younger children, being very much
caressed, and not a little spoiled by her parents.

The foregoing description of the grocer's family would be incomplete
without some mention of his household. Old Josyna Shotterel, the cook,
who had lived with her master ever since his marriage, and had the
strongest attachment for him, was a hale, stout dame, of about sixty,
with few infirmities for her years, and with less asperity of temper
than generally belongs to servants of her class. She was a native of
Holland, and came to England early in life, where she married Blaize's
father, who died soon after their union. An excellent cook in a plain
way--indeed, she had no practice in any other--she would brew strong ale
and mead, or mix a sack-posset with, any innkeeper in the city.
Moreover, she was a careful and tender nurse, if her services were ever
required in that capacity. The children looked upon her as a second
mother; and her affection for them, which was unbounded, deserved their
regard. She was a perfect storehouse of what are termed "old women's
receipts;" and there were few complaints (except the plague) for which
she did not think herself qualified to prescribe and able to cure. Her
skill in the healing art was often tested by her charitable mistress,
who required her to prepare remedies, as well as nourishing broths, for
such of the poor of the parish as applied to her for relief at times of
sickness.

Her son, Blaize, was a stout, stumpy fellow, about four feet ten, with a
head somewhat too large for his body, and extremely long arms. Ever
since the plague had broken out in Drury-lane, it haunted him like a
spectre, and scattered the few faculties he possessed. In vain he tried
to combat his alarm--in vain his mother endeavoured to laugh him out of
it. Nothing would do. He read the bills of mortality daily; ascertained
the particulars of every case; dilated upon the agonies of the
sufferers; watched the progress of the infection, and calculated the
time it would take to reach Wood-street. He talked of the pestilence by
day, and dreamed of it at night; and more than once alarmed the house by
roaring for assistance, under the idea that he was suddenly attacked. By
his mother's advice, he steeped rue, wormwood, and sage in his drink,
till it was so abominably nauseous that he could scarcely swallow it,
and carried a small ball in the hollow of his hand, compounded of wax,
angelica, camphor, and other drugs. He likewise chewed a small piece of
Virginian snake-root, or zedoary, if he approached any place supposed to
be infected. A dried toad was suspended round his neck, as an amulet of
sovereign virtue. Every nostrum sold by the quacks in the streets
tempted him; and a few days before, he had expended his last crown in
the purchase of a bottle of plague-water. Being of a superstitious
nature, he placed full faith in all the predictions of the astrologers,
who foretold that London should be utterly laid waste, that grass should
grow in the streets, and that the living should not be able to bury the
dead. He quaked at the terrible denunciations of the preachers, who
exhorted their hearers to repentance, telling them a judgment was at
hand, and shuddered at the wild and fearful prophesying of the insane
enthusiasts who roamed the streets. His nativity having been cast, and
it appearing that he would be in great danger on the 20th of June, he
made up his mind that he should die of the plague on that day. Before he
was assailed by these terrors, he had entertained a sneaking attachment
for Patience, the kitchen-maid, a young and buxom damsel, who had no
especial objection to him. But of late, his love had given way to
apprehension, and his whole thoughts were centred in one idea, namely,
self-preservation.

By this time supper was over, and the family were about to separate for
the night, when Stephen, the grocer's eldest son, having risen to quit
the room, staggered and complained of a strange dizziness and headache,
which almost deprived him of sight, while his heart palpitated
frightfully. A dreadful suspicion seized his father. He ran towards him,
and assisted him to a seat. Scarcely had the young man reached it, when
a violent sickness seized him; a greenish-coloured froth appeared at the
mouth, and he began to grow delirious. Guided by the convulsive efforts
of the sufferer, Bloundel tore off his clothes, and after a moment's
search, perceived under the left arm a livid pustule. He uttered a cry
of anguish. His son was plague-stricken.


II.

THE COFFIN-MAKER.

The first shock over, the grocer bore the affliction manfully, and like
one prepared for it. Exhibiting little outward emotion, though his heart
was torn with anguish, and acting with the utmost calmness, he forbade
his wife to approach the sufferer, and desired her instantly to retire
to her own room with her daughters; and not to leave it on any
consideration whatever, without his permission.

Accustomed to regard her husband's word as law, Mrs. Bloundel, for the
first time in her life, disputed his authority, and, falling on her
knees, besought him, with tears in her eyes, to allow her to nurse her
son. But he remained inflexible, and she was forced to comply.

He next gave similar directions to old Josyna respecting his two younger
sons, with this difference only, that when they were put to rest, and
the door was locked upon them, she was to return to the kitchen and
prepare a posset-drink of canary and spirits of sulphur, together with a
poultice of mallows, lily-roots, figs, linseed, and palm-oil, for the
patient.

These orders given and obeyed, with Leonard Holt's assistance-for
Blaize, who had crept into a corner, in extremity of terror, was wholly
incapable of rendering any help-he conveyed his son to the adjoining
room, on the ground floor, where there was a bed, and placing him within
it, heaped blankets upon him to promote profuse perspiration, while the
apprentice lighted a fire.

Provided with the most efficacious remedies for the distemper, and
acquainted with the mode of treating it prescribed by the College of
Physicians, Bloundel was at no loss how to act, but, rubbing the part
affected with a stimulating ointment, he administered at the same time
doses of mithridate, Venice treacle, and other potent alexipharmics.

He had soon the satisfaction of perceiving that his son became somewhat
easier; and after swallowing the posset-drink prepared by old Josyna,
who used all the expedition she could, a moisture broke out upon the
youth's skin, and appeared to relieve him so much, that, but for the
ghastly paleness of his countenance, and the muddy look of his eye, his
father would have indulged a hope of his recovery.

Up to this time, the grocer had acted for himself, and felt confident he
had acted rightly; but he now deemed it expedient to call in advice,
and, accordingly, commissioned his apprentice to fetch Doctor Hodges, a
physician, residing in Great Knightrider-street, Doctors' Commons, who
had recently acquired considerable reputation for his skilful treatment
of those attacked by the plague, and who (it may be incidentally
mentioned) afterwards gave to the medical world a curious account of the
ravages of the disorder, as well as of his own professional experiences
during this terrible period. He likewise told him--and he could not
repress a sigh as he did so--to give notice to the Examiner of Health
(there were one or two officers, so designated, appointed to every
parish, at this awful season, by the city authorities) that his house
was infected.

While preparing to set out, Leonard again debated with himself whether
he should acquaint his master with Maurice Wyvil's meditated visit. But
conceiving it wholly impossible that Amabel could leave her mother's
room, even if she were disposed to do so, he determined to let the
affair take its course. On his way to the shop, he entered a small room
occupied by Blaize, and found him seated near a table, with his hands
upon his knees, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, looking the very
image of despair. The atmosphere smelt like that of an apothecary's
shop, and was so overpowering, that Leonard could scarcely breathe. The
table was covered with pill-boxes and phials, most of which were
emptied, and a dim light was afforded by a candle with a most portentous
crest of snuff.

"So you have been poisoning yourself, I perceive," observed Leonard,
approaching him.

"Keep off!" cried the porter, springing suddenly to his feet. "Don't
touch me, I say. Poisoning myself! I have taken three rufuses, or
pestilential pills; two spoonfuls of alexiteral water; the same quantity
of anti-pestilential decoction; half as much of Sir Theodore Mayerne's
electuary; and a large dose of orvietan. Do you call that poisoning
myself? I call it taking proper precaution, and would recommend you to
do the same. Beside this, I have sprinkled myself with vinegar,
fumigated my clothes, and rubbed my nose, inside and out, till it
smarted so intolerably, I was obliged to desist, with balsam of
sulphur."

"Well, well, if you don't escape the plague, it won't be your fault,"
returned Leonard, scarcely able to refrain from laughing. "But I have
something to tell you before I go."

"What is the matter?" demanded Blaize, in alarm. "Where--where are you
going?"

"To fetch the doctor," replied Leonard.

"Is Master Stephen worse?" rejoined the porter.

"On the contrary, I hope he is better," replied Leonard "I shall be back
directly, but as I have to give notice to the Examiner of Health that
the house is infected, I may be detained a few minutes longer than I
anticipate. Keep the street-door locked; I will fasten the yard-gate,
and do not for your life let any one in, except Doctor Hodges, till I
return. Do you hear?--do you understand what I say?"

"Yes, I hear plain enough," growled Blaize. "You say that the house is
infected, and that we shall all be locked up."

"Dolt!" exclaimed the apprentice, "I said no such thing." And he
repeated his injunctions, but Blaize was too much terrified to
comprehend them. At last, losing all patience, Leonard cried in a
menacing tone, "If you do not attend to me, I will cudgel you within an
inch of your life, and you will find the thrashing harder to bear even
than the plague itself. Rouse yourself, fool, and follow me."

Accompanied by the porter, he hurried to the yard-gate, saw it bolted
within-side, and then returned to the shop, where, having found his cap
and cudgel, he directed Blaize to lock the door after him, cautioning
him, for the third time, not to admit any one except the doctor. "If I
find, on my return, that you have neglected my injunctions," he
concluded, "as sure as I now stand before you, I'll break every bone in
your body."

Blaize promised obedience, adding in a supplicating tone, "Leonard, if I
were you, I would not go to the Examiner of Health. Poor Stephen may not
have the plague, after all. It's a dreadful thing to be imprisoned for a
month, for that's the time appointed by the Lord Mayor. Only a week ago
I passed several houses in Holborn, shut up on account of the plague,
with a watchman at the door, and I never shall forget the melancholy
faces I saw at the windows. It was a dreadful spectacle, and has haunted
me ever since."

"It cannot be helped," rejoined Leonard, with a sigh. "If we disobey the
Lord Mayor's orders, and neglect giving information, we shall all be
sent to Newgate, while poor Stephen will be taken to the pest-house.
Besides, the searchers will be here before morning. They are sure to
learn what has happened from Doctor Hodges."

"True, true," replied Blaize; "I had forgotten that. Let me go with you,
dear Leonard. I dare not remain here longer."

"What! would you leave your kind good master, at a time like this, when
he most needs your services?" rejoined Leonard, reproachfully. "Out,
cowardly hound! I am ashamed of you. Shake off your fears, and be a man.
You can but die once; and what matters it whether you die of the plague
or the cholic?"

"It matters a great deal," replied Blaize. "I am afraid of nothing but
the plague. I am sure I shall be its next victim in this house. But you
are right--I cannot desert my kind master, nor my old mother. Farewell,
Leonard. Perhaps we may never meet again. I may be dead before you come
back. I feel very ill already."

"No wonder, after all the stuff you have swallowed," returned Leonard.
"But pluck up your courage, or you will bring on the very thing you are
anxious to avoid. As many people have died from fear as from any other
cause. One word before I go. If any one should get into the house by
scaling the yard-wall, or through the window, instantly alarm our
master."

"Certainly," returned Blaize, with a look of surprise, "But do you
expect any one to enter the house in that way?"

"Ask no questions, but do as I bid you," rejoined Leonard, opening the
door, and about to go forth.

"Stop a moment," cried Blaize, detaining him, and drawing from his
pocket a handful of simples. "Won't you take some of them with you to
guard against infection? There's wormwood, woodsorrel, masterwort,
zedoary, and angelica; and lastly, there is a little bottle of the
sovereign preservative against the plague, as prepared by the great Lord
Bacon, and approved by Queen Elizabeth. Won't you take _that_?"

"I have no fear," replied Leonard, shutting the door in his face. And as
he lingered for a moment while it was locked, he heard Blaize say to
himself, "I must go and take three more rufuses and a large dose of
diascordium."

It was a bright moonlight night, and as the apprentice turned to depart,
he perceived a figure hastily retreating on the other side of the way.
Making sure it was Maurice Wyvil, though he could not distinguish the
garb of the person--that side of the street being in the shade--and
stung by jealousy, he immediately started in pursuit. The fugitive
struck down Lad-lane, and run on till he came to the end of
Lawrence-lane, where, finding himself closely pressed, he suddenly
halted, and pulling his hat over his brows to conceal his features,
fiercely confronted his pursuer.

"Why do you follow me thus, rascal?" he cried, drawing his sword. "Would
you rob me? Begone, or I will call the watch."

"It _is_ his voice!" cried the apprentice. "I have news for you, Mr.
Maurice Wyvil. You will not see Amabel to-night. The plague is in her
father's house."

"The plague!" exclaimed Wyvil, in an altered tone, and dropping the
point of his sword. "Is she smitten by it?"

The apprentice answered by a bitter laugh, and without tarrying longer
to enjoy his rival's distress, set off towards Cheapside. Before
reaching the end of Lawrence-lane, however, he half-repented his
conduct, and halted to see whether Wyvil was following him; but as he
could perceive nothing of him, he continued his course.

Entering Cheapside, he observed, to his surprise, a crowd of persons
collected near the Cross, then standing a little to the east of
Wood-street. This cross, which was of great antiquity, and had undergone
many mutilations and alterations since its erection in 1486, when it
boasted, amongst other embellishments, images of the Virgin and Saint
Edward the Confessor, was still not without some pretensions to
architectural beauty. In form it was hexagonal, and composed of three
tiers, rising from one another like the divisions of a telescope, each
angle being supported by a pillar surmounted by a statue, while the
intervening niches were filled up with sculptures, intended to represent
some of the sovereigns of England. The structure was of considerable
height, and crowned by a large gilt cross. Its base was protected by a
strong wooden railing. About a hundred yards to the east, there stood a
smaller hexagonal tower, likewise ornamented with carvings, and having a
figure on its conical summit blowing a horn. This was the Conduit.
Midway between these buildings the crowd alluded to above was collected.

As Leonard drew near, he found the assemblage was listening to the
exhortations of an enthusiast, whom he instantly recognised from a
description he had heard of him from Blaize. The name of this
half-crazed being was Solomon Eagle. Originally a Quaker, upon the
outbreak of the plague he had abandoned his home and friends, and roamed
the streets at night, denouncing doom to the city. He was a tall gaunt
man, with long jet-black hair hanging in disordered masses over his
shoulders. His eyes were large and black, and blazed with insane lustre,
and his looks were so wild and terrific, that it required no great
stretch of imagination to convert him into the genius of the pestilence.
Entirely stripped of apparel except that his loins were girt with a
sheep-skin, in imitation of Saint John in the Wilderness, he bore upon
his head a brazier of flaming coals, the lurid light of which falling
upon his sable locks and tawny skin, gave him an unearthly appearance.

Impelled by curiosity, Leonard paused for a moment to listen, and heard
him thunder forth the following denunciation:--"And now, therefore, as
the prophet Jeremiah saith, 'I have this day declared it to you, but ye
have not obeyed the voice of the Lord your God, nor anything for the
which he hath sent me unto you. Now, therefore, know certainly that ye
shall die by the sword, by the famine, and by the pestilence.' Again, in
the words of the prophet Amos, the Lord saith unto YOU by my mouth, 'I
have sent among you the pestilence after the manner of Egypt, yet have
you not returned unto me. Therefore, will I do this unto thee, O Israel;
and because I will do this unto thee, prepare to meet thy God?' Do you
hear this, O sinners? God will proceed against you in the day of His
wrath, though He hath borne with you in the day of His patience? O how
many hundred years hath He spared this city, notwithstanding its great
provocations and wickedness! But now He will no longer show it pity, but
will pour out His wrath upon it I Plagues shall come upon it, and
desolation; and it shall be utterly burnt with fire,--for strong is the
Lord who judgeth it!"

His address concluded, the enthusiast started off at a swift pace,
shrieking, in a voice that caused many persons to throw open their
windows to listen to him, "Awake! sinners, awake'--the plague is at
your doors!--the grave yawns for you!--awake, and repent!" And followed
by the crowd, many of whom kept up with him, he ran on vociferating in
this manner till he was out of hearing.

Hurrying forward in the opposite direction, Leonard glanced at the
ancient and picturesque houses on either side of the way,--now bathed
in the moonlight, and apparently hushed in repose and security,--and he
could not repress a shudder as he reflected that an evil angel was,
indeed, abroad, who might suddenly arouse their slumbering inmates to
despair and death. His thoughts took another turn as he entered the
precincts of Saint Paul's, and surveyed the venerable and majestic
fabric before him. His eyes rested upon its innumerable crocketed
pinnacles, its buttresses, its battlements, and upon the magnificent
rose-window terminating the choir. The apprentice had no especial love
for antiquity, but being of an imaginative turn, the sight of this
reverend structure conjured up old recollections, and brought to mind
the noble Collegiate Church of his native town.

"Shall I ever see Manchester again?" he sighed: "shall I take Amabel
with me there? Alas! I doubt it. If I survive the plague, she, I fear,
will never be mine."

Musing thus, he scanned the roof of the cathedral, and noticing its
stunted central tower, could not help thinking how much more striking
its effects must have been, when the lofty spire it once supported was
standing. The spire, it may be remarked, was twice destroyed by
lightning; first in February, 1444, and subsequently in June, 1561, when
it was entirely burnt down, and never rebuilt. Passing the Convocation
House, which then stood at one side of the southern transept, Leonard
struck down Paul's Chain, and turning to the right, speeded along Great
Knightrider-street, until he reached an old habitation at the corner of
the passage leading to Doctors' Commons.

Knocking at the door, an elderly servant presently appeared, and in
answer to his inquiries whether Doctor Hodges was at home, stated that
he had gone out, about half an hour ago, to attend Mr. Fisher, a
proctor, who had been suddenly attacked by the plague at his residence
in Bartholomew-close, near Smithfield.

"I am come on the same errand," said Leonard, "and must see your master
instantly."

"If you choose to go to Bartholomew-close," replied the servant, "you
may probably meet with him. Mr. Fisher's house is the last but two, on
the right, before you come to the area in front of the church."

"I can easily find it," returned Leonard, "and will run there as fast as
I can. But if your master should pass me on the road, beseech him to go
instantly to Stephen Bloundell's, the grocer, in Wood-street."

The servant assenting, Leonard hastily retraced his steps, and
traversing Blow-bladder-street and Saint-Martin's-le-Grand, passed
through Aldersgate. He then shaped his course through the windings of
Little Britain and entered Duck-lane. He was now in a quarter fearfully
assailed by the pestilence. Most of the houses had the fatal sign upon
their doors--a red cross, of a foot long, with the piteous words above
it, "Lord have mercy upon us," in characters so legible that they could
be easily distinguished by the moonlight, while a watchman, with a
halberd in his hand, kept guard outside.

Involuntarily drawing in his breath, Leonard quickened his pace. But he
met with an unexpected and fearful interruption. Just as he reached the
narrow passage leading from Duck-lane to Bartholomew-close, he heard the
ringing of a bell, followed by a hoarse voice, crying, "Bring out your
dead--bring out your dead!" he then perceived that a large,
strangely-shaped cart stopped up the further end of the passage, and
heard a window open, and a voice call out that all was ready. The next
moment a light was seen at the door, and a coffin was brought out and
placed in the cart. This done, the driver, who was smoking a pipe,
cracked his whip, and put the vehicle in motion.

Shrinking into a doorway, and holding a handkerchief to his face, to
avoid breathing the pestilential effluvia, Leonard saw that there were
other coffins in the cart, and that it was followed by two persons in
long black cloaks. The vehicle itself, fashioned like an open hearse,
and of the same sombre colour, relieved by fantastical designs, painted
in white, emblematic of the pestilence, was drawn by a horse of the
large black Flanders breed, and decorated with funeral trappings. To
Leonard's inexpressible horror, the cart again stopped opposite him, and
the driver ringing his bell, repeated his doleful cry. While another
coffin was brought out, and placed with the rest, a window in the next
house was opened, and a woman looking forth screamed, "Is Anselm
Chowles, the coffin-maker, there?"

"Yes, here I am, Mother Malmayns," replied one of the men in black
cloaks, looking up as he spoke, and exhibiting features so hideous, and
stamped with such a revolting expression, that Leonard's blood curdled
at the sight. "What do you want with me?" he added.

"I want you to carry away old Mike Norborough," replied the woman.

"What, is the old miser gone at last?" exclaimed Chowles, with an
atrocious laugh. "But how shall I get paid for a coffin?"

"You may pay yourself with what you can find in the house," replied
Mother Malmayns; "or you may carry him to the grave without one, if you
prefer it."

"No, no, that won't do," returned Chowles. "I've other customers to
attend to who _will_ pay; and, besides, I want to get home. I expect
friends at supper. Good-night, Mother Malmayns. You know where to find
me, if you want me. Move on, Jonas, or you will never reach Saint
Sepulchre's."

The woman angrily expostulated with him, and some further parley
ensued,--Leonard did not tarry to hear what, but rushing past them,
gained Bartholomew-close.

He soon reached the proctor's house, and found it marked with the fatal
cross. Addressing a watchman at the door, he learnt, to his great
dismay, that Doctor Hodges had been gone more than a quarter of an hour.
"He was too late," said the man. "Poor Mr. Fisher had breathed his last
before he arrived, and after giving some directions to the family as to
the precautions they ought to observe, the doctor departed."

"How unfortunate!" exclaimed Leonard, "I have missed him a second time.
But I will run back to his house instantly."

"You will not find him at home," returned the watchman "He is gone to
Saint Paul's, to attend a sick person."

"To Saint Paul's at this hour!" cried the apprentice. "Why, no one is
there, except the vergers or the sexton."

"He is gone to visit the sexton, who is ill of the plague," replied the
watchman. "I have told you all I know about him. You can do what you
think best."

Determined to make another effort before giving in, Leonard hurried back
as fast as he could. While threading Duck-lane, he heard the doleful
bell again, and perceived the dead-cart standing before a house, from
which two small coffins were brought. Hurrying past the vehicle, he
remarked that its load was fearfully increased, but that the
coffin-maker and his companion had left it. Another minute had not
elapsed before he reached Aldersgate, and passing through the postern,
he beheld a light at the end of Saint Anne's-lane, and heard the
terrible voice of Solomon Eagle, calling to the sleepers to awake and
repent.

Shutting his ears to the cry, Leonard did not halt till he reached the
great western door of the cathedral, against which he knocked. His first
summons remaining unanswered, he repeated it, and a wicket was then
opened by a grey-headed verger, with a lantern in his hand, who at first
was very angry at being disturbed; but on learning whom the applicant
was in search of, and that the case was one of urgent necessity, he
admitted that the doctor was in the cathedral at the time.

"Or rather, I should say," he added, "he is in Saint Faith's. I will
conduct you to him, if you think proper. Doctor Hodges is a good man,--a
charitable man," he continued, "and attends the poor for nothing. He is
now with Matthew Malmayns, the sexton, who was taken ill of the plague
yesterday, and will get nothing but thanks--if he gets those--for his
fee. But, follow me, young man, follow me."

So saying, he shut the wicket, and led the way along the transept. The
path was uneven, many of the flags having been removed, and the verger
often paused to throw a light upon the ground, and warn his companion of
a hole.

On arriving at the head of the nave, Leonard cast his eyes down it, and
was surprised at the magical effect of the moonlight upon its
magnificent avenue of pillars; the massive shafts on the left being
completely illuminated by the silvery beams, while those on the right
lay in deep shadow.

"Ay, it is a noble structure," replied the old verger, noticing his look
of wonder and admiration, "and, like many a proud human being, has known
better days. It has seen sad changes in my time, for I recollect it when
good Queen Bess ruled the land. But come along, young man,--you have
something else to think of now."

Bestowing a momentary glance upon the matchless choir, with its groined
roof, its clerestory windows, its arched openings, its carved stalls,
and its gorgeous rose-window, Leonard followed his conductor through a
small doorway on the left of the southern transept, and descending a
flight of stone steps, entered a dark and extensive vault, for such it
seemed. The feeble light of the lantern fell upon ranks of short heavy
pillars, supporting a ponderous arched roof.

"You are now in Saint Faith's," observed the verger, "and above you is
the choir of Saint Paul's."

Leonard took no notice of the remark, but silently crossing the nave of
this beautiful subterranean church (part of which still exists),
traversed its northern aisle. At length the verger stopped before the
entrance of a small chapel, once dedicated to Saint John the Baptist,
but now devoted to a less sacred purpose. As they advanced, Leonard
observed a pile of dried skulls and bones in one corner, a stone coffin,
strips of woollen shrouds, fragments of coffins, mattocks, and spades.
It was evidently half a charnel, half a receptacle for the sexton's
tools.

"If you choose to open that door," said the verger, pointing to one at
the lower end of the chamber, "you will find him you seek. I shall go no
further."

Summoning up all his resolution, Leonard pushed open the door. A
frightful scene met his gaze. At one side of a deep, low-roofed vault,
the architecture of which was of great antiquity, and showed that it had
been a place of burial, was stretched a miserable pallet, and upon it,
covered by a single blanket, lay a wretch, whose groans and struggles
proclaimed the anguish he endured. A lamp was burning on the floor, and
threw a sickly light upon the agonized countenance of the sufferer. He
was a middle-aged man, with features naturally harsh, but which now,
contracted by pain, had assumed a revolting expression. An old crone,
who proved to be his mother, and a young man, who held him down in bed
by main force, tended him. He was rambling in a frightful manner; and as
his ravings turned upon the most loathly matters, it required some
firmness to listen to them.

At a little distance from him, upon a bench, sat a stout,
shrewd-looking, but benevolent little personage, somewhat between forty
and fifty. This was Doctor Hodges. He had a lancet in his hand, with
which he had just operated upon the sufferer, and he was in the act of
wiping it on a cloth. As Leonard entered the vault, the doctor observed
to the attendants of the sick man, "He will recover. The tumour has
discharged its venom. Keep him as warm as you can, and do not let him
leave his bed for two days. All depends upon that. I will send him
proper medicines and some blankets shortly. If he takes cold, it will be
fatal."

The young man promised to attend to the doctor's injunctions, and the
old woman mumbled her thanks.

"Where is Judith Malmayns?" asked Doctor Hodges: "I am surprised not to
see her. Is she afraid of the distemper?"

"Afraid of it!--not she," replied the old woman. "Since the plague has
raged so dreadfully, she has gone out as a nurse to the sick, and my
poor son has seen nothing of her."

Leonard then recollected that he had heard the woman, who called out of
the miser's house, addressed as Mother Malmayns by the coffin-maker, and
had no doubt that she was the sexton's wife. His entrance having been so
noiseless that it passed unnoticed, he now stepped forward, and,
addressing Doctor Hodges, acquainted him with his errand.

"What!" exclaimed the doctor, as soon as he concluded, "a son of Stephen
Bloundel, the worthy grocer of Wood-street, attacked by the plague! I
will go with you instantly, young man. I have a great regard for your
master--a very great regard. There is not a better man living. The poor
lad must be saved, if possible." And hastily repeating his instructions
to the attendants of the sick man, he left the vault with the
apprentice.

They found the verger in the charnel, and before quitting it, the doctor
drew a small flask of canary from his pocket, and applied it to his
lips.

"This is my anti-pestilential drink," he remarked with a smile, "and it
has preserved me from contagion hitherto. You must let us out of the
south door, friend," he added to the verger, "for I shall be obliged to
step home for a moment, and it will save time. Come with me, young man,
and tell me what has been done for the grocer's son."

As they traversed the gloomy aisle of Saint Faith, and mounted to the
upper structure, Leonard related all that had taken place since poor
Stephen's seizure. The doctor strongly expressed his approval of what
had been done, and observed, "It could not be better. With Heaven's
help, I have no doubt we shall save him, and I am truly glad of it for
his father's sake."

By this time they had reached the southern door, and the verger having
unlocked it, they issued forth. It was still bright moonlight, and
Leonard, whose mind was greatly relieved by the assurances of the
physician, felt in some degree reconciled to the delay, and kept up his
part in the conversation promoted by his companion. The doctor, who was
an extremely kind-hearted man, and appeared to have a great regard for
the grocer, made many inquiries as to his family, and spoke in terms of
the highest admiration of the beauty of his eldest daughter. The mention
of Amabel's name, while it made Leonard's cheek burn, rekindled all his
jealousy of Wyvil, and he tried to make some excuse to get away, but his
companion would not hear of it.

"I tell you there is no hurry," said the doctor; "all is going on as
well as possible. I will make your excuses to your master."

"On reaching the doctor's house they were ushered into a large room,
surrounded with bookshelves and cases of anatomical preparations. Hodges
seated himself at a table, on which a shaded lamp was placed, and
writing out a prescription, desired his servant to get it made up at a
neighbouring apothecary's, and to take it, with a couple of blankets, to
the sexton of Saint Paul's. He then produced a bottle of medicated
canary, and pouring out a large glass for the apprentice, drained
another himself.

"I will answer for its virtue," he said: "it is a sure preservative
against the plague."

Having furnished himself with several small packets of simples, a few
pots of ointment, one or two phials, and a case of surgical instruments,
he told Leonard he was ready to attend him.

"We will go round by Warwick-lane," he added. "I must call upon Chowles,
the coffin-maker. It will not detain us a moment; and I have an order to
give him."

The mention of this name brought to Leonard's mind the hideous attendant
on the dead-cart, and he had no doubt he was the person in question. It
did not become him, however, to make a remark, and they set out.

Mounting Addle-hill, and threading Ave-Maria-lane, they entered
Warwick-lane, and about half-way up the latter thoroughfare, the doctor
stopped before a shop, bearing on its immense projecting sign the
representation of a coffin lying in state, and covered with scutcheons,
underneath which was written, "ANSELM CHOWLES, COFFIN-MAKER."

"I do not think you will find Mr. Chowles at home," observed Leonard:
"for I saw him with the dead-cart not half an hour ago."

"Very likely," returned the doctor; "but I shall see one of his men. The
coffin-maker's business is now carried on in the night time," he added,
with a sigh; "and he drives a flourishing trade. These sad times will
make his fortune."

As he spoke, he rapped with his cane at the door, which, after a little
delay, was opened by a young man in a carpenter's dress, with a hammer
in his hand. On seeing who it was, this person exhibited great
confusion, and would have retired; but the doctor, pushing him aside,
asked for his master.

"You cannot see him just now, sir," replied the other, evidently
considerably embarrassed. "He is just come home greatly fatigued, and is
about to retire to rest."

"No matter," returned the doctor, entering a room, in which three or
four other men were at work, hastily finishing coffins; "I _must_ see
him."

No further opposition being offered, Hodges, followed by the apprentice,
marched towards an inner room. Just as he reached the door, a burst of
loud laughter, evidently proceeding from a numerous party, arose from
within, and a harsh voice was heard chanting the following strains:

  SONG OF THE PLAGUE.
  To others the Plague a foe may be,
  To me 'tis a friend--not an enemy;
  My coffins and coffers alike it fills,
  And the richer I grow the more it kills.
  _Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!_

  For months, for years, may it spend its rage
  On lusty manhood and trembling age;
  Though half mankind of the scourge should die,
  My coffins will sell--so what care I?
  _Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!_

Loud acclamations followed the song, and the doctor, who was filled with
disgust and astonishment, opened the door. He absolutely recoiled at the
scene presented to his gaze. In the midst of a large room, the sides of
which were crowded with coffins, piled to the very ceiling, sat about a
dozen personages, with pipes in their mouths, and flasks and glasses
before them. Their seats were coffins, and their table was a coffin set
upon a bier. Perched on a pyramid of coffins, gradually diminishing in
size as the pile approached its apex, Chowles was waving a glass in one
hand, and a bottle in the other, when the doctor made his appearance.

A more hideous personage cannot be imagined than the coffin-maker. He
was clothed in a suit of rusty black, which made his skeleton limbs look
yet more lean and cadaverous. His head was perfectly bald, and its
yellow skin, divested of any artificial covering, glistened like
polished ivory. His throat was long and scraggy, and supported a head
unrivalled for ugliness. His nose had been broken in his youth, and was
almost compressed flat with his face. His few remaining teeth were
yellow and discoloured with large gaps between them. His eyes were
bright, and set in deep cavernous recesses, and, now that he was more
than half-intoxicated, gleamed with unnatural lustre. The friends by
whom he was surrounded were congenial spirits,--searchers, watchmen,
buriers, apothecaries, and other wretches, who, like himself, rejoiced
in the pestilence, because it was a source of profit to them.

At one corner of the room, with a part-emptied glass before her, and
several articles in her lap, which she hastily pocketed on the entrance
of the doctor, sat the plague-nurse, Mother Malmayns; and Leonard
thought her, if possible, more villainous-looking than her companions.
She was a rough, raw-boned woman, with sandy hair and light brows, a
sallow, freckled complexion, a nose with wide nostrils, and a large,
thick-lipped mouth. She had, moreover, a look of mingled cunning and
ferocity inexpressibly revolting.

Sharply rebuking Chowles, who, in springing from his lofty seat, upset
several of the topmost coffins, the doctor gave him some directions,
and, turning to the nurse, informed her of her husband's condition, and
ordered her to go to him immediately Mother Malmayns arose, and glancing
significantly at the coffin-maker, took her departure.

Repeating his injunctions to Chowles in a severe tone, the doctor
followed; and seeing her take the way towards Saint Paul's, proceeded at
a brisk pace along Paternoster-row with the apprentice. In a few minutes
they reached Wood-street, and knocking at the door, were admitted by
Blaize.

"Heaven be praised, you are come at last!" exclaimed the porter. "Our
master began to think something had happened to you."

"It is all my fault," returned Doctor Hodges; "but how is the young
man?"

"Better, much better, as I understand," replied Blaize; "but I have not
seen him."

"Come, that's well," rejoined Hodges. "Lead me to his room."

"Leonard will show you the way," returned the porter, holding back.

Glancing angrily at Blaize, the apprentice conducted the doctor to the
inner room, where they found the grocer, with the Bible on his knee,
watching by the bedside of his son. He was delighted with their
appearance, but looked inquisitively at his apprentice for some
explanation of his long absence. This Hodges immediately gave; and,
having examined the sufferer, he relieved the anxious father by
declaring, that, with due care, he had little doubt of his son's
recovery.

"God be praised!" exclaimed Bloundel, falling on his knees.

Hodges then gave minute directions to the grocer as to how he was to
proceed, and told him it would be necessary for some time to keep his
family separate. To this Bloundel readily agreed. The doctor's next
inquiries were, whether notice had been given to the Examiner of Health,
and the grocer referring to Leonard, the latter acknowledged that he had
forgotten it, but undertook to repair his omission at once.

With this view, he quitted the room, and was hastening towards the shop,
when he observed a figure on the back stairs. Quickly mounting them, he
overtook on the landing Maurice Wyvil.

       *       *       *       *       *


III.

THE GAMESTER AND THE BULLY.

Before proceeding further, it will be necessary to retrace our steps for
a short time, and see what was done by Maurice Wyvil after the alarming
announcement made to him by the apprentice. Of a selfish nature and
ungovernable temper, and seeking only in the pursuit of the grocer's
daughter the gratification of his lawless desires, he was filled, in the
first instance, with furious disappointment at being robbed of the
prize, at the very moment he expected it to fall into his hands. But
this feeling was quickly effaced by anxiety respecting his mistress,
whose charms, now that there was every probability of losing her (for
Leonard's insinuation had led him to believe she was assailed by the
pestilence), appeared doubly attractive to him; and scarcely under the
governance of reason, he hurried towards Wood-street, resolved to force
his way into the house, and see her again, at all hazards. His wild
design, however, was fortunately prevented. As he passed the end of the
court leading to the ancient inn (for it was ancient even at the time of
this history), the Swan-with-two-Necks, in Lad-lane, a young man, as
richly attired as himself, and about his own age, who had seen him
approaching, suddenly darted from it, and grasping his cloak, detained
him.

"I thought it must be you, Wyvil," cried this person. "Where are you
running so quickly? I see neither angry father, nor jealous apprentice,
at your heels. What has become of the girl? Are you tired of her
already?"

"Let me go, Lydyard," returned Wyvil, trying to extricate himself from
his companion's hold, who was no other than the gallant that had
accompanied him on his first visit to the grocer's shop, and had played
his part so adroitly in the scheme devised between them to procure an
interview with Amabel,--"let me go, I say, I am in no mood for jesting."

"Why, what the plague is the matter?" rejoined Lydyard. "Has your
mistress played you false? Have you lost your wager?"

"The plague _is_ the matter," replied Wyvil, sternly. "Amabel is
attacked by it. I must see her instantly."

"The devil!" exclaimed Lydyard. "Here is a pretty termination to the
affair. But if this is really the case, you must _not_ see her. It is
one thing to be run through the arm,--which you must own I managed as
dexterously as the best master of fence could have done,--and lose a few
drops of blood for a mistress, but it is another to brave the plague on
her account."

"I care for nothing," replied Wyvil; "I _will_ see her."

"This is madness!" remonstrated Lydyard, still maintaining his grasp.
"What satisfaction will it afford you to witness her sufferings--to see
the frightful ravages made upon her charms by this remorseless
disease,--to throw her whole family into consternation, and destroy the
little chance she may have of recovery, by your presence? What good will
this do? No,--you must pay your wager to Sedley, and forget her."

"I cannot forget her," replied Wyvil. "My feelings have undergone a
total change. If I _am_ capable of real love, it is for her."

"Real love!" exclaimed Lydyard, in an incredulous tone. "If the subject
were not too serious, I should laugh in your face. No doubt you would
marry her, and abandon your design upon the rich heiress, pretty
Mistress Mallet, whom old Rowley recommended to your attention, and whom
the fair Stewart has more than half-won for you?"

"I would," replied the other, energetically.

"Nay, then, you are more insane than I thought you," rejoined Lydyard,
relinquishing his hold; "and the sooner you take the plague the better.
It may cure your present brain fever. I shall go back to Parravicin, and
the others. You will not require my assistance further."

"I know not," replied Wyvil, distractedly; "I have not yet given up my
intention of carrying off the girl."

"If you carry her oft in this state," rejoined the other, "it must be to
the pest-house. But who told you she was attacked by the plague?"

"Her father's apprentice," replied Wyvil.

"And you believed him?" demanded Lydyard, with a derisive laugh.

"Undoubtedly," replied Wyvil. "Why not?"

"Because it is evidently a mere trick to frighten you from the house,"
rejoined Lydyard. "I am surprised so shallow a device should succeed
with _you_."

"I wish I could persuade myself it was a trick," returned Wyvil. "But
the fellow's manner convinced me he was in earnest."

"Well, I will not dispute the point, though I am sure I am right,"
returned Lydyard. "But be not too precipitate. Since the apprentice has
seen you, some alteration may be necessary in your plans. Come with me
into the house. A few minutes can make no difference."

Wyvil suffered himself to be led up the court, and passing through a
door on the left, they entered a spacious room, across which ran a long
table, furnished at one end with wine and refreshments, and at the other
with cards and dice.

Three persons were seated at the table, the most noticeable of whom was
a dissipated-looking young man, dressed in the extremity of the
prevailing mode, with ruffles of the finest colbertine, three inches in
depth, at his wrists; a richly-laced cravat round his throat; white silk
hose, adorned with gold clocks; velvet shoes of the same colour as the
hose, fastened with immense roses; a silver-hilted sword, supported by a
broad embroidered silk band; and a cloak and doublet of
carnation-coloured velvet, woven with gold, and decorated with
innumerable glittering points and ribands. He had a flowing wig of
flaxen hair, and a broad-leaved hat, looped with a diamond buckle, and
placed negligently on the left side of his head. His figure was slight,
but extremely well formed; and his features might have been termed
handsome, but for their reckless and licentious expression. He was
addressed by his companions as Sir Paul Parravicin.

The person opposite to him, whose name was Disbrowe, and who was
likewise a very handsome young man, though his features were flushed and
disturbed, partly by the wine he had drunk, and partly by his losses at
play, was equipped in the splendid accoutrements of a captain in the
king's body-guard. His left hand convulsively clutched an empty purse,
and his eyes were fixed upon a large sum of money, which he had just
handed over to the knight, and which the latter was carelessly
transferring to his pocket.

The last of the three, whose looks betrayed his character--that of a
sharper and a bully--called himself Major Pillichody, his pretensions to
military rank being grounded upon his service (so ran his own statement,
though it was never clearly substantiated) in the king's army during the
civil wars. Major Pillichody was a man of remarkably fierce exterior.
Seamed with many scars, and destitute of the left eye, the orifice of
which was covered, with a huge black patch; his face was of a deep
mulberry colour, clearly attesting his devotion to the bottle; while his
nose, which was none of the smallest, was covered with "bubukles, and
whelks, and knobs, and flames of fire." He was of the middle size,
stoutly built, and given to corpulency, though not so much so as to
impair his activity. His attire consisted of a cloak and doublet of
scarlet cloth, very much stained and tarnished, and edged with gold
lace, likewise the worse for wear; jack-boots, with huge funnel tops;
spurs, with enormous rowels, and a rapier of preposterous length. He
wore his own hair, which was swart and woolly, like that of a negro; and
had beard and moustaches to match. His hat was fiercely cocked; his
gestures swaggering and insolent; and he was perpetually racking his
brain to invent new and extra-ordinary oaths.

"So soon returned!" cried Parravicin, as Wyvil appeared. "Accept my
congratulations?"

"And mine!" cried Pillichody. "We wild fellows have but to be seen to
conquer. Sugar and spice, and all that's nice!" he added, smacking his
lips, as he filled a glass from a long-necked bottle on the table; "May
the grocer's daughter prove sweeter than her father's plums, and more
melting than his butter! Is she without? Are we to see her?"

Wyvil made no answer, but, walking to the other end of the room, threw
himself into a chair, and, covering his face with his hands, appeared
wrapped in thought. Lydyard took a seat beside him, and endeavoured to
engage him in conversation; but, finding his efforts fruitless, he
desisted.

"Something is wrong," observed Parravicin, to the major. "He has been
foiled in his attempt to carry off the girl. Sedley has won his wager,
and it is a heavy sum. Shall we resume our play?" he added, to Disbrowe.

"I have nothing more to lose," observed the young man, filling a large
goblet to the brim, and emptying it at a draught. "You are master of
every farthing I possess."

"Hum!" exclaimed Parravicin, taking up a pack of cards, and snapping
them between his finger and thumb. "You are married, Captain Disbrowe?"

"What if I am?" cried the young man, becoming suddenly pale; "what if I
am?" he repeated.

"I am told your wife is beautiful," replied Parravicin.

"Beautiful!" ejaculated Pillichody; "by the well-filled coffers of the
widow of Watling-street! she is an angel. Beautiful is not the word:
Mrs. Disbrowe is divine!"

"You have never seen her," said the young man, sternly.

"Ha!--fire and fury! my word doubted," cried the major, fiercely. "I
have seen her at the play-houses, at the Mulberry-garden, at court, and
at church. Not seen her! By the one eye of a Cyclops, but I have! You
shall hear my description of her, and judge of its correctness.
_Imprimis_, she has a tall and majestic figure, and might be a queen for
her dignity."

"Go on," said Disbrowe, by no means displeased with the commencement.

"Secondly," pursued Pillichody, "she has a clear olive complexion,
bright black eyes, hair and brows to match, a small foot, a pretty
turn-up nose, a dimpling cheek, a mole upon her throat, the rosiest lips
imaginable, an alluring look--"

"No more," interrupted Disbrowe. "It is plain you have never seen her."

"Unbelieving pagan!" exclaimed the major, clapping his hand furiously
upon his sword. "I have done more--I have spoken with her."

"A lie!" replied Disbrowe, hurling a dice-box at his head.

"Ha!" roared Pillichody, in a voice of thunder, and pushing back his
chair till it was stopped by the wall. "Death and fiends! I will make
mincemeat of your heart, and send it as a love-offering to your wife."

And, whipping out his long rapier, he would have assaulted Disbrowe, if
Sir Paul had not interposed, and commanded him authoritatively to put up
his blade.

"You shall have your revenge in a safer way," he whispered.

"Well, Sir Paul," rejoined the bully, with affected reluctance, "as you
desire it, I will spare the young man's life. I must wash away the
insult in burgundy, since I cannot do so in blood."

With this, he emptied the flask next him, and called to a drawer, who
was in attendance, in an imperious tone, to bring two more bottles.

Parravicin, meanwhile, picked up the dice-box, and, seating himself,
spread a large heap of gold on the table.

"I mentioned your wife, Captain Disbrowe," he said, addressing the young
officer, who anxiously watched his movements, "not with any intention of
giving you offence, but to show you that, although you have lost your
money, you have still a valuable stake left."

"I do not understand you, Sir Paul," returned Disbrowe, with a look of
indignant surprise.

"To be plain, then," replied Parravicin, "I have won from you two
hundred pounds--all you possess. You are a ruined man, and, as such,
will run any hazard to retrieve your losses. I give you a last chance. I
will stake all my winnings, nay, double the amount, against your wife.
You have a key of the house you inhabit, by which you admit yourself at
all hours; so at least the major informs me. If I win, that key shall be
mine. I will take my chance for the rest. Do you understand me now?"

"I do," replied the young man, with concentrated fury. "I understand
that you are a villain. You have robbed me of my money, and would rob me
of my honour."

"These are harsh words, sir," replied the knight, calmly; "but let them
pass. We will play first, and fight afterwards. But you refuse my
challenge ?"

"It is false!" replied Disbrowe, fiercely, "I accept it." And producing
a key, he threw it on the table. "My life is, in truth, set on the die,"
he added, with a desperate look--"for if I lose, I will not survive my
shame."

"You will not forget our terms," observed Parravicin. "I am to be your
representative to-night. You can return home to-morrow."

"Throw, sir--throw," cried the young man, fiercely.

"Pardon, me," replied the knight; "the first cast is with you. A single
main decides it."

"Be it so," returned Disbrowe, seizing the box. And as he shook the dice
with a frenzied air, the major and Lydyard drew near the table, and even
Wyvil roused himself to watch the result.

"Twelve!" cried Disbrowe, as he removed the box. "My honour is saved! My
fortune retrieved--Huzza!"

"Not so fast," returned Parravicin, shaking the box in his turn. "You
were a little too hasty," he added, uncovering the dice. "I am twelve,
too. We must throw again."

"This to decide," cried the young officer, again rattling the dice.
"Six!"

Parravicin smiled, took the box, and threw ten.

"Perdition!" ejaculated Disbrowe, striking his brow with his clenched
hand. "What devil tempted me to my undoing?--My wife trusted to this
profligate! Horror!--it must not be!"

"It is too late to retract," replied Parravicin, taking up the key, and
turning with a triumphant look to his friends.

Disbrowe noticed the smile, and stung beyond endurance, drew his sword,
and called to the knight to defend himself.

In an instant, passes were exchanged. But the conflict was brief.
Fortune, as before, declared herself in favour of Parravicin. He
disarmed his assailant, who rushed out of the room, uttering the wildest
ejaculations of rage and despair.

"I told you you should have your revenge," observed the knight to
Pillichody, as soon as Disbrowe was gone. "Is his wife really as
beautiful as you represent her?"

"Words are too feeble to paint her charms," replied the major. "Shafts
of Cupid! she must be seen to be appreciated."

"Enough!" returned Parravicin. "I have not made a bad night's work of
it, so far. I'faith, Wyvil, I pity you. To lose a heavy wager is
provoking enough--but to lose a pretty mistress is the devil."

"I have lost neither yet," replied Wyvil, who had completely recovered
his spirits, and joined in the general merriment occasioned by the
foregoing occurrence. "I have been baffled, not defeated. What say you
to an exchange of mistresses? I am so diverted with your adventure, that
I am half inclined to give you the grocer's daughter for Disbrowe's
wife. She is a superb creature--languid as a Circassian, and passionate
as an Andalusian."

"I can't agree to the exchange, especially after your rapturous
description," returned Parravicin, "but I'll stake Mrs. Disbrowe against
Amabel. The winner shall have both. A single cast shall decide, as
before."

"No," replied Wyvil, "I could not resign Amabel, if I lost. And the luck
is all on your side to-night."

"As you please," rejoined the knight, sweeping the glittering pile into
his pocket. "Drawer, another bottle of burgundy. A health to our
mistresses!" he added, quaffing a brimmer.

"A health to the grocer's daughter!" cried Wyvil, with difficulty
repressing a shudder, as he uttered the pledge.

"A health to the rich widow of Watling-street," cried Pillichody,
draining a bumper, "and may I soon call her mine!"

"I have no mistress to toast," said Lydyard; "and I have drunk wine
enough. Do not forget, gentlemen, that the plague is abroad."

"You are the death's-head at the feast, Lydyard," rejoined Parravicin,
setting down his glass. "I hate the idea of the plague. It poisons all
our pleasures. We must meet at noon to-morrow, at the Smyrna, to compare
notes as to our successes. Before we separate, can I be of any further
service to you, Wyvil? I came here to enjoy _your_ triumph; but, egad, I
have found so admirable a bubble in that hot-headed Disbrowe, whom I met
at the Smyrna, and brought here to while away the time, that I must
demand your congratulations upon _mine_."

"You have certainly achieved an easy victory over the husband," returned
Wyvil; "and I trust your success with the wife will be commensurate. I
require no further assistance. What I have to do must be done alone.
Lydyard will accompany me to the house, and then I must shift for
myself."

"Nay, we will all see you safe inside," returned Parravicin, "We shall
pass by the grocer's shop. I know it well, having passed it a hundred
times, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its lovely inmate."

"I am glad it _was_ a vain hope," replied Wyvil. "But I must scale a
wall to surprise the garrison."

"In that case you will need the rope-ladder," replied Lydyard; "it is in
readiness."

"I will carry it," said Pillichody, picking up the ladder which was
lying in a corner of the room, and throwing it over his shoulders.
"Bombs and batteries! I like to be an escalader when the forts of love
are stormed."

The party then set out. As they proceeded, Parravicin ascertained from
the major that Disbrowe's house was situated in a small street leading
out of Piccadilly, but as he could not be quite sure that he understood
his informant aright, he engaged him to accompany him and point it out.

By this time they had reached Wood-street, and keeping in the shade,
reconnoitred the house. But though Wyvil clapped his hands, blew a
shrill whistle, and made other signals, no answer was returned, nor was
a light seen at any of the upper windows. On the contrary, all was still
and silent as death.

The grocer's was a large, old-fashioned house, built about the middle of
the preceding century, or perhaps earlier, and had four stories, each
projecting over the other, till the pile seemed completely to overhang
the street. The entire front, except the upper story, which was
protected by oaken planks, was covered with panels of the same timber,
and the projections were supported by heavy beams, embellished with
grotesque carvings. Three deeply-embayed windows, having stout wooden
bars, filled with minute diamond panes, set in leaden frames, were
allotted to each floor; while the like number of gables, ornamented with
curiously-carved coignes, and long-moulded leaden spouts, shooting far
into the street, finished the roof. A huge sign, with the device of
Noah's Ark, and the owner's name upon it, hung before the door.

After carefully examining the house, peeping through the chinks in the
lower shutters, and discovering the grocer seated by the bedside of his
son, though he could not make out the object of his solicitude, Wyvil
decided upon attempting an entrance by the backyard. To reach it, a
court and a narrow alley, leading to an open space surrounded by high
walls, had to be traversed. Arrived at this spot, Wyvil threw one end of
the rope ladder over the wall, which was about twelve feet high, and
speedily succeeding in securing it, mounted, and drawing it up after
him, waved his hand to his companions, and disappeared on the other
side. After waiting for a moment to listen, and hearing a window open,
they concluded he had gained admittance, and turned to depart.

"And now for Mrs. Disbrowe!" cried Parravicin. "We shall find a coach or
a chair in Cheapside. Can I take you westward, Lydyard?"

But the other declined the offer, saying, "I will not desert Wyvil. I
feel certain he will get into some scrape, and may need me to help him
out of it. Take care of yourself, Parravicin. Beware of the plague, and
of what is worse than the plague, an injured husband. Good-night,
major."

"Farewell, sir," returned Pillichody, raising his hat. "A merry
watching, and a good catching, as the sentinels were wont to say, when I
served King Charles the First. Sir Paul, I attend you."


IV.

THE INTERVIEW.

Maurice Wyvil, as his friends conjectured, had found his way into the
house. Creeping through the window, and entering a passage, he moved
noiselessly along till he reached the head of the kitchen stairs, where,
hearing voices below, and listening to what was said, he soon
ascertained from the discourse of the speakers, who were no other than
old Josyna and Patience, that it was not the grocer's daughter, but one
of his sons, who was attacked by the plague, and that Amabel was in
perfect health, though confined in her mother's bedroom.

Overjoyed at the information he had thus acquired, he retired as
noiselessly as he came, and after searching about for a short time,
discovered the main staircase, and ascended it on the points of his
feet. He had scarcely, however, mounted a dozen steps, when a door
opened, and Blaize crawled along the passage, groaning to himself, and
keeping his eyes bent on the ground. Seeing he was unnoticed, Wyvil
gained the landing, and treading softly, placed his ear at every door,
until at last the musical accents of Amabel convinced him he had hit
upon the right one.

His heart beat so violently that, for a few seconds, he was unable to
move. Becoming calmer, he tried the door, and finding it locked, rapped
with his knuckles against it. The grocer's wife demanded who was there.
But Wyvil, instead of returning an answer, repeated his application. The
same demand followed, and in a louder key. Still no answer. A third
summons, however, so alarmed Mrs. Bloundel, that, forgetful of her
husband's injunctions, she opened the door and looked out; but, as Wyvil
had hastily retired into a recess, she could see no one.

Greatly frightened and perplexed, Mrs. Bloundel rushed to the head of
the stairs, to see whether there was any one below; and as she did so,
Wyvil slipped into the room, and locked the door. The only object he
beheld--for he had eyes for nothing else--was Amabel, who, seeing him,
uttered a faint scream. Clasping her in his arms, Wyvil forgot, in the
delirium of the moment, the jeopardy in which he was placed.

"Do you know what has happened?" cried Amabel, extricating herself from
his embrace.

"I know all," replied her lover; "I would risk a thousand deaths for
your sake. You must fly with me."

"Fly!" exclaimed Amabel; "at such a time as this?--my brother dying--the
whole house, perhaps, infected! How can you ask me to fly? Why have you
come hither? You will destroy me."

"Not so, sweet Amabel," replied Wyvil, ardently. "I would bear you from
the reach of this horrible disease. I am come to save you, and will not
stir without you."

"What shall I do?" cried Amabel, distractedly. "But I am rightly
punished for my disobedience and ingratitude to my dear father. Oh!
Wyvil, I did not deserve this from you."

"Hear me, Amabel," cried her lover; "I implore your forgiveness. What I
have done has been from irresistible passion, and from no other cause.
You promised to meet me to-night. Nay, you half consented to fly with
me. I have prepared all for it. I came hither burning with impatience
for the meeting. I received no signal, but encountering your father's
apprentice, was informed that you were attacked by the plague. Imagine
my horror and distress at the intelligence. I thought it would have
killed me. I determined, however, at all risks, to see you once more--to
clasp you in my arms before you died--to die with you, if need be. I
accomplished my purpose. I entered the house unobserved. I overheard the
servants say it was your brother who was ill, not you. I also learnt
that you were in your mother's room. I found the door, and by a
fortunate device, obtained admittance. Now you know all, and will you
not fly with me?"

"How _can_ I fly?" cried Amabel, gazing wildly round the room, as if in
search of some place of refuge or escape, and, noticing her little
sister, Christiana, who was lying asleep in the bed--"Oh! how I envy
that innocent!" she murmured.

"Think of nothing but yourself," rejoined Wyvil, seizing her hand. "If
you stay here, it will be to perish of the plague. Trust to me, and I
will secure your flight."

"I cannot--I dare not," cried Amabel, resisting him with all her force.

"You _must_ come," cried Wyvil, dragging her along.

As he spoke, Mrs. Bloundel, who had been down to Blaize's room to
ascertain what was the matter, returned. Trying the door, and finding it
fastened, she became greatly alarmed, and called to Amabel to open it
directly.

"It is my mother," cried Amabel. "Pity me, Heaven! I shall die with
shame."

"Heed her not," replied Wyvil, in a deep whisper; "in her surprise and
confusion at seeing me, she will not be able to stop us. Do not
hesitate. There is not a moment to lose."

"What is the matter, child?" cried Mrs. Bloundel. "Why have you fastened
the door? Is there any one in the room with you?"

"She hears us," whispered Amabel. "What shall I do? You must not be
seen?"

"There is no use in further concealment," cried Wyvil. "You are mine,
and twenty mothers should not bar the way."

"Hold!" cried Amabel, disengaging herself by a sudden effort. "I have
gone too far--but not so far as you imagine. I am not utterly lost."

And before she could be prevented, she rushed to the door, threw it
open, and flung herself into her mother's arms, who uttered an
exclamation of terror at beholding Wyvil. The latter, though filled with
rage and confusion, preserved an unmoved exterior, and folded his arms
upon his breast.

"And so it was you who knocked at the door!" cried Mrs. Bloundel,
regarding the gallant with a look of fury--"it was you who contrived to
delude me into opening it! I do not ask why you have come hither like a
thief in the night, because I require no information on the subject. You
are come to dishonour my child--to carry her away from those who love
her and cherish her, and would preserve her from such mischievous
serpents as you. But, Heaven be praised! I have caught you before your
wicked design could Be effected. Oh! Amabel, my child, my child!" she
added, straining her to her bosom, "I had rather--far rather--see you
stricken with the plague, like your poor brother, though I felt there
was not a hope of your recovery, than you should fall into the hands of
this Satan!"

"I have been greatly to blame, dear mother," returned Amabel, bursting
into tears; "and I shall neither seek to exculpate myself, nor conceal
what I have done. I have deceived you and my father. I have secretly
encouraged the addresses of this gentleman. Nay, if the plague had not
broken out in our house to-night, I should have flown from it with him."

"You shock me, greatly, child," returned Mrs. Bloundel; "but you relieve
me at the same time. Make a clean breast, and hide nothing from me."

"I have nothing more to tell, dear mother," replied Amabel, "except that
Maurice Wyvil has been in the room ever since you left it, and might,
perhaps, have carried me off in spite of my resistance, if you had not
returned when you did."

"It was, indeed, a providential interference," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel.
"From what a snare of the evil one--from what a pitfall have you been
preserved!"

"I feel I have had a narrow escape, dear mother," replied Amabel.
"Pardon me. I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I will never offend
you more."

"I forgive you from my heart, child, and will trust you," returned Mrs.
Bloundel, in a voice broken by emotion.

"That is more than I would," thought Maurice Wyvil. "A woman who has
once deceived those she holds dear, will not fail to do so a second
time. The fairest promises are forgotten when the danger is past."

"Mr. Wyvil, if you have a particle of regard for me, you will instantly
leave the house," said Amabel, turning to him.

"If had my own way, he should leave it through the window," said Mrs.
Bloundel; "and if he tarries a minute longer, I will give the alarm."

"You hear this, sir," cried Amabel:--"go, I entreat you."

"I yield to circumstance, Amabel," replied Wyvil; "but think not I
resign you. Come what will, and however I may be foiled, I will not
desist till I make you mine."

"I tremble to hear him," cried Mrs. Bloundel, "and could not have
believed such depravity existed. Quit the house, sir, directly, or I
will have you turned out of it."

"Do not remain another moment," implored Amabel. "Do not, do not!"

"Since I have no other way of proving my love, I must perforce obey,"
returned Wyvil, trying to snatch her hand and press it to his lips; but
she withdrew it, and clung more closely to her mother. "We part," he
added, significantly, "only for a time."

Quitting the room, he was about to descend the stairs, when Mrs.
Bloundel, who had followed to see him safely off the premises, hearing a
noise below, occasioned by the return of Leonard with the doctor,
cautioned him to wait. A further delay was caused by Blaize, who,
stationing himself at the foot of the stairs, with a light in his hand,
appeared unwilling to move. Apprehensive of a discovery, Mrs. Bloundel
then directed the gallant to the back staircase, and he had got about
halfway down, when he was surprised by Leonard Holt, as before related.

At the very moment that Wyvil was overtaken on the landing by the
apprentice, Amabel appeared at the door of her chamber with a light. The
different emotions of each party at this unexpected rencontre may be
imagined. Leonard Holt, with a breast boiling with jealous rage,
prepared to attack his rival. He had no weapon about him, having left
his cudgel in the shop, but he doubled his fists, and, nerved by
passion, felt he had the force of a Hercules in his arm. Wyvil, in his
turn, kept his hand upon his sword, and glanced at his mistress, as if
seeking instructions how to act. At length, Mrs. Bloundel, who formed
one of the group, spoke.

"Leonard Holt," she said, "show this person out at the door. Do not lose
sight of him for an instant; and, as soon as he is gone, try to find out
how he entered the house."

"He entered it like a robber," returned Leonard, looking fiercely at the
gallant, "and if I did my strict duty, I should seize him and give him
in charge to the watch. He has come here for the purpose of stealing my
master's chief valuable--his daughter."

"I am aware of it," replied Mrs. Bloundel, "and nothing but
consideration for my husband prevents my delivering him up to justice.
As it is, he may go free. But should he return--"

"If I catch him here again," interrupted Leonard, "I will shoot him as I
would a dog, though I should be hanged for the deed. Have you considered
well what you are doing, madam? I would not presume beyond my station,
but there are seasons when an inferior may give wholesome advice. Are
you certain you are acting as your worthy husband would, in allowing
this person to depart? If you have any doubt, speak. Fear nothing.
Unarmed as I am, I am a match for him, and will detain him."

"Do not heed what Leonard says, dear mother," interposed Amabel. "For my
sake, let Mr. Wyvil go."

"I _have_ considered the matter, Leonard," returned Mrs. Bloundel, "and
trust I am acting rightly. At all events, I am sure I am sparing my
husband pain."

"It is mistaken tenderness," rejoined Leonard, "and Heaven grant you may
not have cause to repent it. If I had your permission, I would so deal
with this audacious intruder, that he should never venture to repeat his
visit."

"You know that you speak safely, fellow," rejoined Wyvil, "and you,
therefore, give full license to your scurrile tongue. But a time will
come when I will chastise your insolence."

"No more of this," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "Do as I bid you, Leonard; and,
as you value my regard, say nothing of what has occurred to your
master."

Sullenly acquiescing, the apprentice preceded Wyvil to the shop, and
opened the door.

As the other passed through it, he said, "You spoke of chastising me
just now. If you have courage enough--which I doubt--to make good your
words, and will wait for me for five minutes, near Saint Alban's Church
in this street, you shall have the opportunity."

Wyvil did not deign a reply, but wrapping his cloak around him, strode
away. He had not proceeded far, when it occurred to him that, possibly,
notwithstanding his interdiction, some of his companions might be
waiting for him, and hurrying down the passage leading to the yard, he
found Lydyard, to whom he recounted his ill-success.

"I shall not, however, abandon my design," he said. "These failures are
only incentives to further exertion."

"In the meantime, you must pay your wager to Sedley," laughed Lydyard,
"and as the house is really infected with the plague, it behoves you to
call at the first apothecary's shop we find open, and get your apparel
fumigated. You must not neglect due precautions."

"True," replied Wyvil, "and as I feel too restless to go home at
present, suppose we amuse ourselves by calling on some astrologer, to
see whether the stars are favourable to my pursuit of this girl."

"A good idea," replied Lydyard. "There are plenty of the 'Sons of
Urania,' as they term themselves, hereabouts.

"A mere juggler will not serve my turn," returned Wyvil.

"William Lilly, the almanack-maker, who predicted the plague, and, if
old Rowley is to be believed, has great skill in the occult sciences,
lives somewhere in Friday-street, not a stone's throw from this place.
Let us go and find him out."

"Agreed," replied Lydyard.


V.

THE POMANDER-BOX.

Any doubts entertained by Leonard Holt as to the manner in which his
rival entered the house, were removed by discovering the open window in
the passage and the rope-ladder hanging to the yard-wall. Taking the
ladder away, and making all as secure as he could, he next seized his
cudgel, and proceeded to Blaize's room, with the intention of inflicting
upon him the punishment he had threatened: for he naturally enough
attributed to the porter's carelessness all the mischief that had just
occurred. Not meeting with him, however, and concluding he was in the
kitchen, he descended thither, and found him in such a pitiable plight,
that his wrath was instantly changed to compassion.

Stretched upon the hearth before a blazing sea-coal fire, which seemed
large enough to roast him, with his head resting upon the lap of
Patience, the pretty kitchen-maid, and his left hand upon his heart, the
porter loudly complained of a fixed and burning pain in that region;
while his mother, who was kneeling beside him, having just poured a
basin of scalding posset-drink down his throat, entreated him to let her
examine his side to see whether he had any pestilential mark upon it,
but he vehemently resisted her efforts.

"Do you feel any swelling, myn lief zoon?" asked old Josyna, trying to
remove his hand.

"Swelling!" ejaculated Blaize,--"there's a tumour as big as an egg."

"Is id possible?" exclaimed Josyna, in great alarm. "Do let me look ad
id."

"No, no, leave me alone," rejoined Blaize. "Don't disturb me further.
You will catch the distemper if you touch the sore."

"Dat wond hinder me from drying to zaave you," replied his mother,
affectionately. "I must see vad is de madder vid you, or I cannod cure
you."

"I am past your doctoring, mother," groaned Blaize. "Leave me alone, I
say. You hurt me shockingly!"

"Poor child!" cried Josyna, soothingly, "I'll be as dender as possible.
I'll nod give you de leasd pain--nod de leasd bid."

"But I tell you, you _do_ give me a great deal," rejoined Blaize. "I
can't bear it. Your fingers are like iron nails. Keep them away."

"Bless us! did I ever hear de like of dad!" exclaimed Josyna. "Iron
nails! if you think so, myn arm zoon, you musd be very ill indeed."

"I _am_ very ill," groaned her son. "I am not long for this world."

"Oh! don't say so, dear Blaize," sobbed Patience, letting fall a
plentiful shower of tears on his face. "Don't say so. I can't bear to
part with you."

"Then don't survive me," returned Blaize. "But there's little chance of
your doing so. You are certain to take the plague."

"I care not what becomes of myself, if I lose you, Blaize," responded
Patience, bedewing his countenance with another shower; "but I hope you
won't die yet."

"Ah! it's all over with me--all over," rejoined Blaize. "I told Leonard
Holt how it would be. I said I should be the next victim. And my words
are come true."

"You are as clever as a conjurer," sobbed Patience; "but I wish you
hadn't been right in this instance. However, comfort yourself. I'll die
with you. We'll be carried to the grave in the same plague-cart."

"That's cold comfort," returned Blaize, angrily. "I beg you'll never
mention the plague-cart again. The thought of it makes me shiver all
over--oh!" And he uttered a dismal and prolonged groan.

At this juncture, Leonard thought it time to interfere.

"If you are really attacked by the plague, Blaize," he said, advancing,
"you must have instant advice. Doctor Hodges is still upstairs with our
master. He must see you."

"On no account," returned the porter, in the greatest alarm, and
springing to his feet. "I am better--much better. I don't think I am ill
at all."

"For the first time, I suspect the contrary," replied the apprentice,
"since you are afraid of owning it. But this is not a matter to be
trifled with. Doctor Hodges will soon settle the point." And he hurried
out of the room to summon the physician.

"Oh! mother!--dear Patience!" roared Blaize, capering about in an
ecstasy of terror; "don't let the doctor come near me. Keep me out of
his sight. You don't know what horrid things are done to those afflicted
with my complaint. But I do,--for I have informed myself on the subject.
Their skins are scarified, and their sores blistered, lanced,
cauterized, and sometimes burned away with a knob of red-hot iron,
called 'the button.'"

"But iv id is necessary, myn goed Blaize, you musd submid," replied his
mother. "Never mind de hod iron or de lance, or de blisder, iv dey make
you well. Never mind de pain. It will soon be over."

"Soon over!" bellowed Blaize, sinking into a chair. "Yes, I feel it
will. But not in the way you imagine. This Doctor Hodges will kill me.
He is fond of trying experiments, and will make me his subject. Don't
let him--for pity's sake, don't."

"But I musd, myn lief jonger," replied his mother, "I musd."

"Oh, Patience!" supplicated Blaize, "you were always fond of me. My
mother has lost her natural affection. She wishes to get rid of me.
Don't take part with her. My sole dependence is upon you."

"I will do all I can for you, dear Blaize," blubbered the kitchen-maid.
"But it is absolutely necessary you should see the doctor."

"Then I won't stay here another minute," vociferated Blaize. "I'll die
in the street rather than under his hands."

And bursting from them, he would have made good his retreat, but for the
entrance of Leonard and Hodges.

At the sight of the latter, Blaize ran back and endeavoured to screen
himself behind Patience.

"Is this the sick man?" remarked Hodges, scarcely able to refrain from
laughing. "I don't think he can be in such imminent danger as you led me
to suppose."

"No, I am better--much better, thank you," returned Blaize, still
keeping Patience between him and the doctor. "The very sight of you has
frightened away the plague."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Hodges, smiling, "then it is the most marvellous
cure I ever yet effected. But, come forward, young man, and let us see
what is the matter with you."

"You neither lance nor cauterize an incipient tumour, do you, doctor?"
demanded Blaize, without abandoning his position.

"Eh, day!" exclaimed Hodges, "have we one of the faculty here? I see how
it is, friend. You have been reading some silly book about the disease,
and have frightened yourself into the belief that you have some of its
symptoms. I hope you haven't been doctoring yourself, likewise. What
have you taken?"

"It would be difficult to say what he has _not_ taken," remarked
Leonard. "His stomach must be like an apothecary's shop."

"I have only used proper precautions," rejoined Blaize, testily.

"And what may those be--eh?" inquired the doctor. "I am curious to
learn."

"Come from behind Patience," cried Leonard, "and don't act the fool
longer, or I will see whether your disorder will not yield to a sound
application of the cudgel."

"Don't rate him thus, good Master Leonard," interposed Patience. "He is
very ill--he is, indeed."

"Then let him have a chance of getting better," returned the apprentice.
"If he _is_ ill, he has no business near you. Come from behind her,
Blaize, I say. Now speak," he added, as the porter crept tremblingly
forth, "and let us hear what nostrums you have swallowed. I know you
have dosed yourself with pills, electuaries, balsams, tinctures,
conserves, spirits, elixirs, decoctions, and every other remedy, real or
imaginary. What else have you done?"

"What Dr. Hodges, I am sure, will approve," replied Blaize, confidently.
"I have rubbed myself with vinegar, oil of sulphur, extract of tar, and
spirit of turpentine."

"What next?" demanded Hodges.

"I placed saltpetre, brimstone, amber, and juniper upon a chafing-dish
to fumigate my room," replied Blaize; "but the vapour was so
overpowering, I could not bear it."

"I should be surprised if you could," replied the doctor. "Indeed, it is
astonishing to me, if you have taken half the remedies Leonard says you
have, and which, taken in this way, are no remedies at all, since they
counteract each other--that you are still alive. But let us see what is
the matter with you. What ails you particularly?"

"Nothing," replied Blaize, trembling; "I am quite well."

"He complains of a fixed pain near de haard, docdor," interposed his
mother, "and says he has a large dumour on his side. But he wond let me
examine id."

"That's a bad sign," observed Hodges, shaking his head. "I am afraid
it's not all fancy, as I at first supposed. Have you felt sick of late,
young man?"

"Not of late," replied Blaize, becoming as white as ashes; "but I do
now."

"Another bad symptom," rejoined the doctor. "Take off your doublet and
open your shirt."

"Do as the doctor bids you," said Leonard, seeing that Blaize hesitated,
"or I apply the cudgel."

"Ah! bless my life! what's this?" cried Hodges, running his hand down
the left side of the porter, and meeting with a large lump. "Can it be a
carbuncle?"

"Yes, it's a terrible carbuncle," replied Blaize; "but don't cauterize
it, doctor."

"Let me look at it," cried Hodges, "and I shall then know how to
proceed."

And as he spoke, he tore open the porter's shirt, and a silver ball,
about as large as a pigeon's egg, fell to the ground. Leonard picked it
up, and found it so hot that he could scarcely hold it.

"Here is the terrible carbuncle," he cried, with a laugh, in which all
the party, except Blaize, joined.

"It's my pomander-box," said the latter. "I filled it with a mixture of
citron-peel, angelica seed, zedoary, yellow saunders, aloes, benzoin,
camphor, and gum-tragacanth, moistened with spirit of roses; and after
placing it on the chafing-dish to heat it, hung it by a string round my
neck, next my dried toad. I suppose, by some means or other, it dropped
through my doublet, and found its way to my side. I felt a dreadful
burning there, and that made me fancy I was attacked by the plague."

"A very satisfactory solution of the mystery," replied the doctor,
laughing; "and you may think yourself well off with the blister which
your box has raised. It will be easier to bear than the cataplasm I
should have given you, had your apprehensions been well founded. As yet,
you are free from infection, young man; but if you persist in this silly
and pernicious practice of quacking yourself, you will infallibly bring
on some fatal disorder--perhaps the plague itself. If your mother has
any regard for you she will put all your medicines out of your reach.
There are few known remedies against this frightful disease; and what
few there are, must be adopted cautiously. My own specific is sack."

"Sack!" exclaimed Blaize, in astonishment. "Henceforth, I will drink
nothing else. I like the remedy amazingly."

"It must be taken in moderation," said the doctor: "otherwise it is as
dangerous as too much physic."

"I have a boddle or doo of de liquor you commend, docdor, in my private
cupboard," observed Josyna. "Will you dasde id?"

"With great pleasure," replied Hodges, "and a drop of it will do your
son no harm."

The wine was accordingly produced, and the doctor pronounced it
excellent, desiring that a glass might always be brought him when he
visited the grocer's house.

"You may rely upon id, mynheer, as long as my small sdore lasds,"
replied Josyna.

Blaize, who, in obedience to the doctor's commands, had drained a large
glass of sack, felt so much inspirited by it, that he ventured, when his
mother's back was turned, to steal a kiss from Patience, and to whisper
in her ear, that if he escaped the plague, he would certainly marry
her--an assurance that seemed to give her no slight satisfaction. His
new-born courage, however, was in some degree damped by Leonard, who
observed to him in an undertone:

"You have neglected my injunctions, sirrah, and allowed the person I
warned you of to enter the house. When a fitting season arrives, I will
not fail to pay off old scores."

Blaize would have remonstrated, and asked for some explanation, but the
apprentice instantly left him, and set out upon his errand to the
Examiner of Health. Accompanied by his mother, who would not even allow
him to say good-night to Patience, the porter then proceeded to his own
room, where the old woman, to his infinite regret, carried off his
stores of medicine in a basket, which she brought with her for that
purpose, and locked the door upon him.

"This has escaped her," said Blaize, as soon as she was gone, opening a
secret drawer in the cupboard. "How fortunate that I kept this reserve.
I have still a tolerable supply in case of need. Let me examine my
stock. First of all, there are plague-lozenges, composed of angelica,
liquorice, flower of sulphur, myrrh, and oil of cinnamon. Secondly, an
electuary of bole-armoniac, hartshorn-shavings, saffron, and syrup of
wood-sorrel. I long to taste it. But then it would be running in the
doctor's teeth. Thirdly, there is a phial labelled _Aqua Theriacalis
Stillatitia_--in plain English, distilled treacle-water. A spoonful of
this couldn't hurt me. Fourthly, a packet of powders, entitled _Manus
Christi_--an excellent mixture. Fifthly, a small pot of diatesseron,
composed of gentian, myrrh, bayberries, and round aristolochia. I must
just taste it. Never mind the doctor! He does not know what agrees with
my constitution as well as I do myself. Physic comes as naturally to me
as mother's milk. Sixthly, there is _Aqua Epidemica_, commonly called
the Plague-Water of Matthias--delicious stuff! I will only just sip it.
What a fine bitter it has! I'm sure it must be very wholesome. Next, for
I've lost my count, comes salt of vipers--next, powder of unicorn's
horn--next, oil of scorpions from Naples--next, dragon-water--all
admirable. Then there are cloves of garlics--sovereign fortifiers of the
stomach--and, lastly, there is a large box of my favourite rufuses. How
many pills have I taken? Only half a dozen! Three more may as well go to
keep the others company."

And hastily swallowing them, as if afraid of detection, he carefully
shut the drawer, and then crept into bed, and, covering himself with
blankets, endeavoured to compose himself to slumber.

Doctor Hodges, meantime, returned to the grocer, and acquainted him that
it was a false alarm, and that the porter was entirely free from
infection.

"I am glad to hear it," replied Bloundel; "but I expected as much.
Blaize is like the shepherd's boy in the fable: he has cried 'wolf' so
often, that when the danger really arrives, no one will heed him."

"I must now take my leave, Mr. Bloundel," said Hodges. "I will be with
you the first thing to-morrow, and have little doubt I shall find your
son going on well. But you must not merely take care of him, but of
yourself, and your household. It will be well to set a chafing-dish in
the middle of the room, and scatter some of these perfumes occasionally
upon it!" and producing several small packets, he gave them to the
grocer. "If you ever smoke a pipe, I would advise you to do so now."

"I never smoke," replied Bloundel, "and hold it as a filthy and
mischievous habit, which nothing but necessity should induce me to
practise."

"It is advisable now," returned Hodges, "and you should neglect no
precaution. Take my word for it, Mr. Bloundel, the plague is only
beginning. When the heats of summer arrive, its ravages will be
frightful. Heaven only knows what will become of us all!"

"If my poor son is spared, and we escape contagion," returned Bloundel,
"I will put into execution a scheme which has occurred to me, and which
(under Providence!) will, I trust, secure my family from further
hazard."

"Ah, indeed! what is that?" inquired Hodges.

"We must talk of it some other time," returned Bloundel "Good-night,
doctor, and accept my thanks for your attention. To-morrow, at as early
an hour as you can make convenient, I shall hope to see you." And with a
friendly shake of the hand, and a reiteration of advice and good wishes,
Hodges departed.

Soon after this the apprentice returned, and by his master's directions,
placed a chafing-dish in the middle of the room, supplying it with the
drugs and herbs left by the doctor. About four o'clock, a loud knocking
was heard. Instantly answering the summons, Leonard found four men at
the shop-door, two of whom he knew, by red wands they carried, were
searchers; while their companions appeared to be undertakers, from their
sable habits and long black cloaks.

Marching unceremoniously into the shop, the searchers desired to see the
sick man; and the apprentice then perceived that one of the men in black
cloaks was the coffin-maker, Chowles. He could not, however, refuse him
admittance, and led the way to the grocer's chamber. As they entered it,
Bloundel arose, and placing his finger to his lips in token of silence,
raised the blankets, and exhibited the blotch, which had greatly
increased in size, under the arm of his slumbering son. The foremost of
the searchers, who kept a phial of vinegar to his nose all the time he
remained in the room, then demanded in a low tone whether there were any
other of the household infected? The grocer replied in the negative.
Upon this, Chowles, whose manner showed he was more than half
intoxicated, took off his hat, and bowing obsequiously to the grocer,
said, "Shall I prepare you a coffin, Mr. Bloundel?--you are sure to want
one, and had better give the order in time, for there is a great demand
for such articles just now. If you like, I will call with it tomorrow
night. I have a plague-cart of my own, and bury all my customers."

"God grant I may not require your services, sir!" replied the grocer,
shuddering. "But I will give you timely notice."

"If you are in want of a nurse, I can recommend an experienced one,"
added Chowles. "Her last employer is just dead."

"I may need assistance," replied the grocer, after a moment's
reflection. "Let her call to-morrow."

"She understands her business perfectly, and will save you a world of
trouble," replied Chowles; "besides securing me the sale of another
coffin," he added to himself.

He then quitted the room with the searchers, and Leonard felt
inexpressibly relieved by their departure.

As soon as the party gained the street, the fourth person, who was
provided with materials for the task, painted a red cross of the
prescribed size--namely, a foot in length--in the middle of the door;
tracing above it, in large characters, the melancholy formula--"LORD,
HAVE MERCY UPON US!"


VI.

THE LIBERTINE PUNISHED.

Sir Paul Parravicin and Major Pillichody arrived without any particular
adventure at the top of the Haymarket, where the former dismissed the
coach he had hired in Cheapside, and they proceeded towards Piccadilly
on foot. Up to this time the major had been in very high spirits,
boasting what he would do, in case they encountered Disbrowe, and
offering to keep guard outside the door while the knight remained in the
house. But he now began to alter his tone, and to frame excuses to get
away. He had noticed with some uneasiness, that another coach stopped
lower down the Haymarket, at precisely the same time as their own; and
though he could not be quite certain of the fact, he fancied he
perceived a person greatly resembling Captain Disbrowe alight from it.
Mentioning the circumstance to his companion, he pointed out a tall
figure following them at some distance; but the other only laughed at
him, and said, "It may possibly be Disbrowe--but what if it is? He
cannot get into the house without the key; and if he is inclined to
measure swords with me a second time, he shall not escape so lightly as
he did the first."

"Right, Sir Paul, right," returned Pillichody, "exterminate him--spare
him not. By Bellerophon! that's my way. My only apprehension is lest he
should set upon us unawares. The bravest are not proof against the
dagger of an assassin."

"There you wrong Disbrowe, major, I am persuaded," returned Parravicin.
"He is too much a man of honour to stab a foe behind his back."

"It may be," replied Pillichody, "but jealousy will sometimes turn a
man's brain. By the snakes of Tisiphone! I have known an instance of it
myself. I once made love to a tailor's wife, and the rascal coming in
unawares, struck me to the ground with his goose, and well nigh murdered
me."

"After such a mischance, I am surprised you should venture to carry on
so many hazardous intrigues," laughed the knight. "But you proposed just
now to keep watch outside the house. If it is Disbrowe who is following
us, you had better do so."

"Why, Sir Paul--you see,"--stammered the major, "I have just bethought
me of an engagement."

"An engagement at this hour--impossible!" cried Parravicin.

"An assignation, I ought to say," returned Pillichody.

"Couches of Cytheraea!--an affair like your own. You would not have me
keep a lady waiting."

"It is strange you should not recollect it till this moment," replied
Parravicin. "But be your inamorata whom she may--even the rich widow of
Watling-street, of whom you prate so much--you must put her off
to-night."

"But, Sir Paul----"

"I will have no denial," replied the knight, peremptorily. If you
refuse, you will find me worse to deal with than Disbrowe. You must
remain at the door till I come out. And now let us lose no more time. I
am impatient to behold the lady."

"Into what a cursed scrape have I got myself!" thought the major, as he
walked by the side of his companion, ever and anon casting wistful
glances over his shoulder. "I am fairly caught on the horns of a
dilemma. I instinctively feel that Disbrowe _is_ dogging us. What will
become of me? The moment this harebrained coxcomb enters the house, I
will see whether a light pair of heels cannot bear me out of harm's
way."

By this time, they had reached a passage known as Bear-alley (all traces
of which have been swept away by modern improvements), and threading it,
they entered a narrow thoroughfare, called Castle-street. Just as they
turned the corner, Pillichody again noticed the figure at the further
end of the alley, and, but for his fears of the knight, would have
instantly scampered off.

"Are we far from the house?" inquired Parravicin.

"No," replied the major, scarcely able to conceal his trepidation. "It
is close at hand--and so is the lady's husband."

"So much the better," replied the knight; "it will afford you some
amusement to beat him off. You may affect not to know him, and may tell
him the lady's husband is just come home--her _husband_!--do you take,
Pillichody?"

"I do--ha! ha! I do," replied the major, in a quavering tone.

"But you don't appear to relish the jest," rejoined Parravicin,
sneeringly.

"Oh, yes, I relish it exceedingly," replied Pillichody; "her
husband--ha!--ha!--and Disbrowe is the disappointed lover--capital! But
here we are--and I wish we were anywhere else," he added to himself.

"Are you sure you are right?" asked Parravicin, searching for the key.

"Quite sure," returned Pillichody. "Don't you see some one behind that
wall?"

"I see nothing," rejoined the knight. "You are afraid of shadows,
major."

"Afraid!" ejaculated Pillichody. "Thousand thunders! I am afraid of
nothing."

"In that case, I shall expect to find you have slain Disbrowe, on my
return," rejoined Parravicin, unlocking the door.

"The night is chilly," observed the major, "and ever since my campaigns
in the Low Countries, I have been troubled with rheumatism. I should
prefer keeping guard inside."

"No, no, you must remain where you are," replied the knight, shutting
the door.

Pillichody was about to take to his heels, when he felt himself arrested
by a powerful arm. He would have roared for aid, but a voice, which he
instantly recognised, commanded him to keep silence, if he valued his
life.

"Is your companion in the house?" demanded Disbrowe, in a hollow tone.

"I am sorry to say he is, Captain Disbrowe," replied the bully. "I did
my best to prevent him, but remonstrance was in vain."

"Liar," cried Disbrowe, striking him with his clenched hand. "Do you
think to impose upon me by such a pitiful fabrication? It was you who
introduced me to this heartless libertine--you who encouraged me to play
with him, telling me I should easily strip him of all he possessed--you
who excited his passion for my wife, by praising her beauty--and it was
you who put it into his head to propose that fatal stake to me."

"There you are wrong, Captain Disbrowe," returned Pillichody, in a
supplicatory tone. "On my soul, you are! I certainly praised your wife
(as who would not?), but I never advised Parravicin to play for her.
That was his own idea entirely."

"The excuse shall not avail you," cried Disbrowe, fiercely. "To you I
owe all my misery. Draw and defend yourself."

"Be not so hasty, captain," cried Pillichody, abjectedly. "I have
injured you sufficiently already. I would not have your blood on my
head. On the honour of a soldier, I am sorry for the wrong I have done
you, and will strive to repair it."

"Repair it!" shrieked Disbrowe. "It is too late." And seizing the
major's arm, he dragged him by main force into the alley.

"Help! help!" roared Pillichody. "Would you murder me?"

"I will assuredly cut your throat, if you keep up this clamour,"
rejoined Disbrowe, snatching the other's long rapier from his side.
"Coward!" he added, striking him with the flat side of the weapon, "this
will teach you to mix yourself up in such infamous affairs for the
future."

And heedless of the major's entreaties and vociferations, he continued
to belabour him, until compelled by fatigue to desist; when the other,
contriving to extricate himself, ran off as fast as his legs could carry
him. Disbrowe looked after him for a moment, as if uncertain whether to
follow, and then hurrying to the house, stationed himself beneath the
porch.

"I will stab him as he comes forth," he muttered, drawing his sword, and
hiding it beneath his mantle.

Parravicin, meanwhile, having let himself into the house, marched boldly
forward, though the passage was buried in darkness, and he was utterly
unacquainted with it. Feeling against the wall, he presently discovered
a door, and opening it, entered a room lighted by a small silver lamp
placed on a marble slab. The room was empty, but its furniture and
arrangements proclaimed it the favourite retreat of the fair mistress of
the abode. Parravicin gazed curiously round, as if anxious to gather
from what he saw some idea of the person he so soon expected to
encounter. Everything betokened a refined and luxurious taste. A few
French romances, the last plays of Etherege, Dryden, and Shadwell, a
volume of Cowley, and some amorous songs, lay on the table; and not far
from them were a loomask, pulvil purse, a pair of scented gloves, a
richly-laced mouchoir, a manteau girdle, palatine tags, and a golden
bodkin for the hair.

Examining all these things, and drawing his own conclusions as to the
character of their owner, Parravicin turned to a couch on which a
cittern was thrown, while beside it, on a cushion, were a pair of tiny
embroidered velvet slippers. A pocket-mirror, or sprunking-glass, as it
was then termed, lay on a side-table, and near it stood an embossed
silver chocolate-pot, and a small porcelain cup with a golden spoon
inside it, showing what the lady's last repast had been. On another
small table, covered with an exquisitely white napkin, stood a flask of
wine, a tall-stemmed glass, and a few cakes on a China dish, evidently
placed there for Disbrowe's return.

As Parravicin drew near this table, a slip of paper, on which a few
lines were traced, attracted his attention, and taking it up, he read as
follows:

"It is now midnight, and you promised to return early. I have felt your
absence severely, and have been suffering from a violent headache, which
has almost distracted me. I have also been troubled with strange and
unaccountable misgivings respecting you. I am a little easier now, but
still far from well, and about to retire to rest. At what hour will this
meet your eye?"

"MARGARET."


"Charming creature!" exclaimed Parravicin, as the paper dropped from his
hand; "she little dreamed, when she wrote it, who would read her billet.
Disbrowe does not deserve such a treasure. I am sorry she is unwell. I
hope she has not taken the plague. Pshaw, what could put such an idea
into my head? Lydyard's warning, I suppose. That fellow, who is the
veriest rake among us, is always preaching. Confound him! I wish he had
not mentioned it. A glass of wine may exhilarate me." And pouring out a
bumper, he swallowed it at a draught. "And so the fond fool is pining
for her husband, and has some misgivings about him. Egad! it is well for
her she does not know what has really taken place. She'll learn that
soon enough. What's this?" he added, glancing at a picture on the wall.
"Her miniature! It must be; for it answers exactly to Pillichody's
description. A sparkling brunette, with raven hair, and eyes of night. I
am on fire to behold her: but I must proceed with prudence, or I may
ruin all. Is there nothing of Disbrowe's that I could put on for the
nonce? 'Fore Heaven! the very thing I want!"

The exclamation was occasioned by his observing a loose silken robe
lying across a chair. Wrapping it round him, and throwing down his hat,
he took the lamp and went up stairs.

Daring as he was, Parravicin felt his courage desert him, as having
found the door of Mrs. Disbrowe's chamber, he cautiously opened it. A
single glance showed him that the room was more exquisitely, more
luxuriously furnished than that he had just quitted. Articles of
feminine attire, of the richest kind, were hung against the walls, or
disposed on the chairs. On one side stood the toilette-table, with its
small mirror then in vogue, and all its equipage of silver flasks,
filligree cassets, japan patch-boxes, scent-bottles, and pomatum-pots.

As he entered the room, a faint voice issuing from behind the rich
damask curtains of the bed, demanded, "Is it you, Disbrowe?"

"It is, Margaret," replied Parravicin, setting down the lamp, and
speaking with a handkerchief at his mouth, to disguise his voice and
conceal his features.

"You are late--very late," she rejoined, "and I have been ill. I fancied
myself dying."

"What has been the matter with you sweet, Meg?" asked Parravicin,
approaching the bed, and seating himself behind the curtains.

"I know not," she replied. "I was seized with a dreadful headache about
an hour ago. It has left me; but I have a strange oppression at my
chest, and breathe with difficulty."

"You alarm me, my love," rejoined Parravicin. "Were you ever attacked
thus before?"

"Never," she replied. "Oh! Disbrowe! if you knew how I have longed for
your return, you would blame yourself for your absence. You have grown
sadly neglectful of late. I suspect you love some one else. If I thought
so------"

"What if you thought so, Margaret?" demanded Parravicin.

"What!" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, raising herself in the bed. "I would
requite your perfidy--terribly requite it!"

"Then learn that Captain Disbrowe _is_ faithless," cried Parravicin,
throwing back the curtains, and disclosing himself. "Learn that he loves
another, and is with her now. Learn that he cares so little for you,
that he has surrendered you to me."

"What do I hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Disbrowe. "Who are you, and what brings
you here?"

"You may guess my errand from my presence," replied the knight. "I am
called Sir Paul Parravicin, and am the most devoted of your admirers."

"My husband surrender me to a stranger! It cannot be!" cried the lady,
distractedly.

"You see me here, and may judge of the truth of my statement," rejoined
the knight. "Your husband gave me this key, with which I introduced
myself to the house."

"What motive could he have for such unheard-of baseness--such
barbarity?" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, bursting into tears.

"Shall I tell you, madam?" replied Parravicin. "He is tired of you, and
has taken this means of ridding himself of you."

Mrs. Disbrowe uttered a loud scream, and fell back in the bed.
Parravicin waited for a moment; but not hearing her move, brought the
lamp to see what was the matter. She had fainted, and was lying across
the pillow, with her night-dress partly open, so as to expose her neck
and shoulders.

The knight was at first ravished with her beauty; but his countenance
suddenly fell, and an expression of horror and alarm took possession of
it. He appeared rooted to the spot, and instead of attempting to render
her any assistance, remained with his gaze fixed upon her neck.

Rousing himself at length, he rushed out of the room, hurried down
stairs, and without pausing for a moment, threw open the street-door. As
he issued from it, his throat was forcibly griped, and the point of a
sword was placed at his breast.

"You are now in my power, villain," cried Disbrowe, "and shall not
escape my vengeance."

"You are already avenged," replied Parravicin, shaking off his
assailant. "Your wife has the plague."


VII.

THE PLAGUE NURSE.

"And so my husband has got the plague," muttered Mother Malmayns, as she
hastened towards Saint Paul's, after the reproof she had received from
Doctor Hodges. "Well, it's a disorder that few recover from, and I don't
think he stands a better chance than his fellows. I've been troubled
with him long enough. I've borne his ill-usage and savage temper for
twenty years, vainly hoping something would take him off; but though he
tried his constitution hard, it was too tough to yield. However, he's
likely to go now. If I find him better than I expect, I can easily make
all sure. That's one good thing about the plague. You may get rid of a
patient without any one being the wiser. A wrong mixture--a pillow
removed--a moment's chill during the fever--a glass of cold water--the
slightest thing will do it. Matthew Malmayns, you will die of the
plague, that's certain. But I must be careful how I proceed. That cursed
doctor has his eye upon me. As luck would have it, I've got Sibbald's
ointment in my pocket. That is sure to do its business--and safely."

Thus ruminating, she shaped her course towards the southwest corner of
the cathedral, and passing under the shrouds and cloisters of the
Convocation House, raised the latch of a small wooden shed fixed in the
angle of a buttress. Evidently well acquainted with the place, she was
not long in finding a lantern and materials to light it, and inserting
her fingers in a crevice of the masonry, from which the mortar had been
removed, she drew forth a key.

"It has not been stirred since I left it here a month ago," she
muttered. "I must take care of this key, for if Matthew _should_ die, I
may not be able to enter the vaults of Saint Faith's without it; and as
I know all their secret places and passages, which nobody else does,
except my husband, I can make them a storehouse for the plunder I may
obtain during the pestilence. If it rages for a year, or only half that
time, and increases in violence (as God grant it may), I will fill every
hole in those walls with gold."

With this, she took up the lantern, and crept along the side of the
cathedral, until she came to a flight of stone steps. Descending them,
she unlocked a small but strong door, cased with iron, and fastening it
after her, proceeded along a narrow stone passage, which brought her to
another door, opening upon the south aisle of Saint Faith's.

Pausing for a moment to listen whether any one was within the sacred
structure--for such was the dead and awful silence of the place, that
the slightest whisper or footfall, even at its farthest extremity, could
be distinguished--she crossed to the other side, glancing fearfully
around her as she threaded the ranks of pillars, whose heavy and
embrowned shafts her lantern feebly illumined, and entering a recess,
took a small stone out of the wall, and deposited the chief part of the
contents of her pocket behind it, after which she carefully replaced the
stone. This done, she hurried to the charnel, and softly opened the door
of the crypt.

Greatly relieved by the operation he had undergone, the sexton had sunk
into a slumber, and was, therefore, unconscious of the entrance of his
wife, who, setting down the lantern, advanced towards the pallet. His
mother and the young man were still in attendance, and the former, on
seeing her daughter-in-law, exclaimed, in low but angry accents--"What
brings you here, Judith? I suppose you expected to find my son dead. But
he will disappoint you. Doctor Hodges said he would recover--did he not
Kerrich?" she added, appealing to the young man, who nodded
acquiescence. "He will recover, I tell you."

"Well, well," replied Judith, in the blandest tone she could assume; "I
hope he will. And if the doctor says so, I have no doubt of it. I only
heard of his illness a few minutes ago, and came instantly to nurse
him."

"_You_ nurse him?" cried the old woman; "if you show him any affection
now, it will be for the first time since your wedding-day."

"How long has he been unwell?" demanded Judith, with difficulty
repressing her anger.

"He was seized the night before last," replied the old woman; "but he
didn't know what was the matter with him when it began. I saw him just
before he went to rest, and he complained of a slight illness, but
nothing to signify. He must have passed a frightful night, for the
vergers found him in the morning running about Saint Faith's like a
madman, and dashing his spades and mattocks against the walls and
pillars. They secured him, and brought him here, and on examination, he
proved to have the plague."

"You surprise me by what you say," replied Judith. "During the last
month, I have nursed more than a dozen patients, and never knew any of
them so violent. I must look at his sore."

"The doctor has just dressed it," observed the old woman.

"I don't mind that," rejoined Judith, turning down the blanket, and
examining her husband's shoulder. "You are right," she added, "he is
doing as well as possible."

"I suppose I shan't be wanted any more," observed Kerrich, "now you're
come back to nurse your husband, Mrs. Malmayns? I shall be glad to get
home to my own bed, for I don't feel well at all."

"Don't alarm yourself," replied Judith. "There's a bottle of plague
vinegar for you. Dip a piece of linen in it, and smell at it, and I'll
insure you against the pestilence."

Kerrich took the phial, and departed. But the remedy was of little
avail. Before daybreak, he was seized with the distemper, and died two
days afterwards.

"I hope poor Kerrich hasn't got the plague?" said the old woman, in a
tremulous tone.

"I am afraid he has," replied the daughter-in-law, "but I didn't like to
alarm him."

"Mercy on us!" cried the other, getting up. "What a dreadful scourge it
is."

"You would say so, if you had seen whole families swept off by it, as I
have," replied Judith. "But it mostly attacks old persons and children."

"Lord help us!" cried the crone, "I hope it will spare me. I thought my
age secured me."

"Quite the reverse," replied Judith, desirous of exciting her
mother-in-law's terrors; "quite the reverse. You must take care of
yourself."

"But you don't think I'm ill, do you?" asked the other, anxiously.

"Sit down, and let me look at you," returned Judith.

And the old woman tremblingly obeyed.

"Well, what do you think of me--what's the matter?" she asked, as her
daughter-in-law eyed her for some minutes in silence. "What's the
matter, I say?"

But Judith remained silent.

"I insist upon knowing," continued the old woman.

"Are you able to bear the truth?" returned her daughter-in-law.

"You need say no more," groaned the old woman. "I know what the truth
must be, and will try to bear it. I will get home as fast as I can, and
put my few affairs in order, so that if I am carried off, I may not go
unprepared."

"You had better do so," replied her daughter-in-law.

"You will take care of my poor son, Judith," rejoined the old woman,
shedding a flood of tears. "I would stay with him, if I thought I could
do him any good; but if I really am infected, I might only be in the
way. Don't neglect him--as you hope for mercy hereafter, do not."

"Make yourself easy, mother," replied Judith. "I will take every care of
him."

"Have you no fears of the disorder yourself?" inquired the old woman.

"None whatever," replied Judith. "I am _a safe woman_."

"I do not understand you," replied her mother-in-law, in surprise.

"I have had the plague," replied Judith; "and those who have had it
once, never take it a second time."

This opinion, entertained at the commencement of the pestilence, it may
be incidentally remarked, was afterwards found to be entirely erroneous;
some persons being known to have the distemper three or four times.

"You never let us know you were ill," said the old woman.

"I could not do so," replied Judith, "and I don't know that I should
have done if I could. I was nursing two sisters at a small house in
Clerkenwell Close, and they both died in the night-time, within a few
hours of each other. The next day, as I was preparing to leave the
house, I was seized myself, and had scarcely strength to creep up-stairs
to bed. An old apothecary, named Sibbald, who had brought drugs to the
house, attended me, and saved my life. In less than a week, I was well
again, and able to move about, and should have returned home, but the
apothecary told me, as I had had the distemper once, I might resume my
occupation with safety. I did so, and have found plenty of employment."

"No doubt," rejoined the old woman; "and you will find plenty
more--plenty more."

"I hope so," replied the other.

"Oh! do not give utterance to such a dreadful wish, Judith," rejoined
her mother-in-law. "Do not let cupidity steel your heart to every better
feeling."

A slight derisive smile passed over the harsh features of the
plague-nurse.

"You heed me not," pursued the old woman. "But a time will come when you
will recollect my words."

"I am content to wait till then," rejoined Judith.

"Heaven grant you a better frame of mind!" exclaimed the old woman. "I
must take one last look of my son, for it is not likely I shall see him
again."

"Not in this world," thought Judith.

"I conjure you, by all that is sacred, not to neglect him," said the old
woman.

"I have already promised to do so," replied Judith, impatiently.
"Good-night, mother."

"It will be a long good-night to me, I fear," returned the dame. "Doctor
Hodges promised to send some blankets and medicine for poor Matthew. The
doctor is a charitable man to the poor, and if he learns I am sick, he
may, perhaps, call and give me advice."

"I am sure he will," replied Judith. "Should the man bring the blankets,
I will tell him to acquaint his master with your condition. And now take
this lantern, mother, and get home as fast as you can."

So saying, she almost pushed her out of the vault, and closed the door
after her.

"At last I am rid of her," she muttered. "She would have been a spy over
me. I hope I have frightened her into the plague. But if she dies of
fear, it will answer my purpose as well. And now for my husband."

Taking up the lamp, and shading it with her hand, she gazed at his
ghastly countenance.

"He slumbers tranquilly," she muttered, after contemplating him for some
time, adding with a chuckling laugh, "it would be a pity to waken him."

And seating herself on a stool near the pallet, she turned over in her
mind in what way she could best execute her diabolical purpose.

While she was thus occupied, the messenger from Doctor Hodges arrived
with a bundle of blankets and several phials and pots of ointment. The
man offered to place the blankets on the pallet, but Judith would not
let him.

"I can do it better myself, and without disturbing the poor sufferer,"
she said. "Give my dutiful thanks to your master. Tell him my husband's
mother, old widow Malmayns, fancies herself attacked by the plague, and
if he will be kind enough to visit her, she lodges in the upper attic of
a baker's house, at the sign of the Wheatsheaf, in Little Distaff-lane,
hard by."

"I will not fail to deliver your message to the doctor," replied the
man, as he took his departure.

Left alone with her husband a second time, Judith waited till she
thought the man had got out of the cathedral, and then rising and taking
the lamp, she repaired to the charnel, to make sure it was untenanted.
Not content with this, she stole out into Saint Faith's, and gazing
round as far as the feeble light of her lamp would permit, called out in
a tone that even startled herself, "Is any one lurking there?" but
receiving no other answer than was afforded by the deep echoes of the
place, she returned to the vault. Just as she reached the door, a loud
cry burst upon her ear, and rushing forward, she found that her husband
had wakened.

"Ah!" roared Malmayns, raising himself in bed, as he perceived her, "are
you come back again, you she-devil? Where is my mother? Where is
Kerrich? What have you done with them?"

"They have both got the plague," replied his wife. "They caught it from
you. But never mind them. I will watch over you as long as you live."

"And that will be for years, you accursed jade," replied the sexton;
"Dr. Hodges says I shall recover."

"You have got worse since he left you," replied Judith. "Lie down, and
let me throw these blankets over you."

"Off!" cried the sick man, furiously. "You shall not approach me. You
want to smother me."

"I want to cure you," replied his wife, heaping the blankets upon the
pallet. "The doctor has sent some ointment for your sore."

"Then let him apply it himself," cried Malmayns, shaking his fist at
her. "You shall not touch me. I will strangle you if you come near me."

"Matthew," replied his wife, "I have had the plague myself, and know how
to treat it better than any doctor in London. I will cure you, if you
will let me."

"I have no faith in you," replied Malmayns, "but I suppose I must
submit. Take heed what you do to me, for if I have but five minutes to
live, it will be long enough to revenge myself upon you."

"I will anoint your sore with this salve," rejoined Judith, producing a
pot of dark-coloured ointment, and rubbing his shoulder with it. "It was
given me by Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell He is a friend of
Chowles, the coffin-maker. You know Chowles, Matthew?"

"I know him for as great a rascal as ever breathed," replied her
husband, gruffly. "He has always cheated me out of my dues, and his
coffins are the worst I ever put under ground."

"He is making his fortune now," said Judith.

"By the plague, eh?" replied Matthew. "I don't envy him. Money so gained
won't stick to him. He will never prosper."

"I wish _you_ had his money, Matthew," replied his wife, in a coaxing
tone.

"If the plague hadn't attacked me when it did, I should have been richer
than Chowles will ever be," replied the sexton,--"nay, I am richer as it
is."

"You surprise me," replied Judith, suddenly pausing in her task. "How
have you obtained your wealth?"

"I have discovered a treasure," replied, the sexton, with a mocking
laugh,--"a secret hoard--a chest of gold--ha! ha!"

"Where--where?" demanded his wife, eagerly.

"That's a secret," replied Matthew.

"I must have it from him before he dies," thought his wife. "Had we
better not secure it without delay?" she added, aloud. "Some other
person may find it."

"Oh, it's safe enough," replied Matthew. "It has remained undiscovered
for more than a hundred years, and will continue so for a hundred to
come, unless I bring it forth."

"But you _will_ bring it forth, won't you?" said Judith.

"Undoubtedly," replied Matthew, "if I get better. But not otherwise.
Money would be of no use to me in the grave."

"But it would be of use to _me_," replied his wife.

"Perhaps it might," replied the sexton; "but if I die, the knowledge of
the treasure shall die with me."

"He is deceiving me," thought Judith, beginning to rub his shoulder
afresh.

"I suspect you have played me false, you jade," cried Malmayns, writhing
with pain. "The stuff you have applied burns like caustic, and eats into
my flesh."

"It is doing its duty," replied his wife, calmly watching his agonies.
"You will soon be easier."

"Perhaps I shall--in death," groaned the sufferer. "I am parched with
thirst. Give me a glass of water."

"You shall have wine, Matthew, if you prefer it. I have a flask in my
pocket," she replied. "But what of the treasure--where is it?"

"Peace!" he cried. "I will baulk your avaricious hopes. You shall never
know where it is."

"I shall know as much as you do," she rejoined, in a tone of
incredulity. "I don't believe a word you tell me. You have found no
treasure."

"If this is the last word I shall ever utter, I _have_," he returned;
--"a mighty treasure. But you shall never possess it--never!--ah! ah!"

"Nor shall you have the wine," she replied; "there is water for you,"
she added, handing him a jug, which he drained with frantic eagerness.
"He is a dead man," she muttered.

"I am chilled to the heart," grasped the sexton, shivering from head to
foot, while chill damps gathered on his brow. "I have done wrong in
drinking the water, and you ought not to have given it me."

"You asked for it," she replied. "You should have had wine but for your
obstinacy. But I will save you yet, if you will tell me where to find
the treasure."

"Look for it in my grave," he returned, with a hideous grin.

Soon after this, he fell into a sort of stupor. His wife could now have
easily put a period to his existence, but she still hoped to wrest the
secret from him. She was assured, moreover, that his recovery was
hopeless. At the expiration of about two hours, he was aroused by the
excruciating anguish of his sore. He had again become delirious, and
raved as before about coffins, corpses, graves, and other loathsome
matters. Seeing, from his altered looks and the livid and gangrenous
appearance which the tumour had assumed, that his end was not far off,
Judith resolved not to lose a moment, but to try the effect of a sudden
surprise. Accordingly, she bent down her head, and shouted in his ear,
"What has become of your treasure, Matthew?"

The plan succeeded to a miracle. The dying man instantly raised himself.

"My treasure!" he echoed with a yell that made the vault ring again.
"Well thought on! I have not secured it. They are carrying it off. I
must prevent them." And throwing off the coverings, he sprang out of
bed.

"I shall have it now," thought his wife. "You are right," she
added,--"they are carrying it off. The vergers have discovered it. They
are digging it up. We must instantly prevent them."

"We must!" shrieked Malmayns. "Bring the light! bring the light!" And
bursting open the door, he rushed into the adjoining aisle.

"He will kill himself, and discover the treasure into the bargain,"
cried Judith, following him. "Ah! what do I see! People in the church.
Curses on them! they have ruined my hopes."


VIII.

THE MOSAICAL RODS.

In pursuance of their design of seeking out an astrologer, Maurice Wyvil
and Lydyard crossed Cheapside and entered Friday-street. They had not
proceeded far, when they perceived a watchman standing beneath a porch
with a lantern in his hand, and thinking it an intimation that the house
was attacked by the plague, they hurried to the opposite side of the
street, and called to the watchman to inquire whether he knew where Mr.
Lilly lived.

Ascertaining that the house they sought was only a short distance off,
they repaired thither, and knocking at the door, a small wicket,
protected by a grating, was open within it, and a sharp female voice
inquired their business.

"Give this to your master, sweetheart," replied Wyvil, slipping a purse
through the grating; "and tell him that two gentlemen desire to consult
him."

"He is engaged just now," replied the woman, in a much softer tone; "but
I will take your message to him."

"You have more money than wit," laughed Lydyard. "You should have kept
back your fee till you had got the information."

"In that case I should never have received any," replied Wyvil. "I have
taken the surest means of obtaining admission to the house."

As he spoke, the door was unbolted by the woman, who proved to be young
and rather pretty. She had a light in her hand, and directing them to
follow her, led the way to a sort of anteroom, divided, as it appeared,
from a larger room by a thick black curtain. Drawing aside the drapery,
their conductress ushered them into the presence of three individuals,
who were seated at a table strewn with papers, most of which were
covered with diagrams and, astrological calculations.

One of these persons immediately rose on their appearance, and gravely
but courteously saluted them. He was a tall man, somewhat advanced in
life, being then about sixty-three, with an aquiline nose, dark eyes,
not yet robbed of their lustre, grey hair waving over his shoulders, and
a pointed beard and moustache. The general expression of his countenance
was shrewd and penetrating, and yet there were certain indications of
credulity about it, showing that he was as likely to be imposed upon
himself as to delude others. It is scarcely necessary to say that this
way Lilly.

The person on his right, whose name was John Booker, and who, like
himself, was a proficient in astrology, was so buried in calculation,
that he did not raise his eyes from the paper on the approach of the
strangers. He was a stout man, with homely but thoughtful features, and
though not more than a year older than Lilly, looked considerably his
senior. With the exception of a few silver curls hanging down the back
of his neck, he was completely bald; but his massive and towering brow
seemed to indicate the possession of no ordinary intellectual qualities.
He was a native of Manchester, and was born in 1601, of a good family.
"His excellent verses upon the twelve months," says Lilly, in his
autobiography, "framed according to the configurations of each month,
being blessed with success according to his predictions, procured him
much reputation all over England. He was a very honest man," continues
the same authority; "abhorred any deceit in the art he studied; had a
curious fancy in judging of thefts; and was successful in resolving
love-questions. He was no mean proficient in astronomy; understood much
in physic! was a great admirer of the antimonial cup; and not unlearned
in chemistry, which he loved well, but did not practise." At the period
of this history, he was clerk to Sir Hugh Hammersley, alderman.

The third person,--a minor canon of Saint Paul's, named Thomas
Quatremain,--was a grave, sallow-complexioned man, with a morose and
repulsive physiognomy. He was habited in the cassock of a churchman of
the period, and his black velvet cap lay beside him on the table. Like
Booker, he was buried in calculations, and though he looked up for a
moment as the others entered the room, he instantly resumed his task,
without regard to their presence.

After looking earnestly at his visitors for a few moments, and appearing
to study their features, Lilly motioned them to be seated; but they
declined the offer.

"I am not come to take up your time, Mr. Lilly," said Wyvil, "but simply
to ask your judgment in a matter in which I am much interested."

"First permit me to return you your purse, sir, since it is from you, I
presume, that I received it," replied the astrologer. "No information
that I can give deserves so large a reward as this."

Wyvil would have remonstrated. But seeing the other resolute, he was
fain to concede the point.

"What question do you desire to have resolved, sir?" pursued Lilly.

"Shall I be fortunate in my hopes?" rejoined Wyvil.

"You must be a little more precise," returned the astrologer. "To what
do your hopes relate?--to wealth, dignity, or love?"

"To the latter," replied Wyvil.

"So I inferred from your appearance, sir," rejoined Lilly, smiling.
"Venus was strong in your nativity, though well-dignified; and I should,
therefore, say you were not unfrequently entangled in love affairs. Your
inamorata, I presume, is young, perhaps fair,--blue-eyed, brown-haired,
tall, slender, and yet perfectly proportioned."

"She is all you describe," replied Wyvil.

"Is she of your own rank?" asked Lilly.

"Scarcely so," replied Wyvil, hesitating before he answered the
question.

"I will instantly erect a scheme," replied the astrologer, rapidly
tracing a figure on a sheet of paper. "The question refers to the
seventh house. I shall take Venus as the natural significatrix of the
lady. The moon is in trine with the lord of the ascendant,--so far,
good; but there is a cross aspect from Mars, who darts forth malicious
rays upon them. Your suit will probably be thwarted. But what Mars
bindeth, Venus dissolveth. It is not wholly hopeless. I should recommend
you to persevere."

"Juggler!" exclaimed "Wyvil between his teeth.

"I am no juggler!" replied Lilly, angrily; "and to prove I am not, I
will tell you who you are who thus insult me, though you have not
announced yourself, and are desirous of preserving your _incognito_. You
are the Earl of Rochester, and your companion is Sir George Etherege."

"'Fore heaven! we are discovered," cried the earl; "but whether by art,
magic, or from previous acquaintance with our features, I pretend not to
determine."

"In either case, my lord,--for it is useless, since you have avowed
yourself, to address you longer as Wyvil," replied Etherege,--"you owe
Mr. Lilly an apology for the insult you have offered him. It was as
undeserved as uncalled for; for he described your position with Amabel
exactly."

"I am sorry for what I said," replied the earl, with great frankness,
"and entreat Mr. Lilly to overlook it, and impute it to its real
cause,--disappointment at his judgment."

"I wish I could give you better hopes, my lord," replied Lilly; "but I
readily accept your apology. Have you any further questions to ask me?"

"Not to-night," replied the earl; "except that I would gladly learn
whether it is your opinion that the plague will extend its ravages?"

"It will extend them so far, my lord, that there shall neither be
buriers for the dead, nor sound to look after the sick," replied Lilly.
"You may have seen a little tract of mine published in 1651,--some
fourteen years ago,--called '_Monarchy or No Monarchy in England_,' in
which, by an hieroglyphic, I foretold this terrible calamity."

"I heard his majesty speak of the book no later than yesterday," replied
Rochester. "He has the highest opinion of your skill, Mr. Lilly, as he
cannot blind himself to the fact that you foretold his father's death.
But this is not the only visitation with which you threaten our devoted
city."

"It is threatened by Heaven, not by me, my lord," replied Lilly. "London
will be devoured by plague and consumed by fire."

"In our time?" asked Etherege.

"Before two years have passed over our heads," returned the astrologer.
"The pestilence originated in the conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in
Sagittarius, on the 10th of last October, and the conjunction of Saturn
and Mars in the same sign, on the 12th of November. It was harbingered
also by the terrible comet of January, which appeared in a cadent and
obscure house, denoting sickness and death: and another and yet more
terrible comet, which will be found in the fiery triplicity of Aries,
Leo, and Sagittarius, will be seen before the conflagration."

"My calculations are, that the plague will be at its worst in August and
September, and will not cease entirely till the beginning of December,"
observed Booker, laying aside his pen.

"And I doubt not you are right, sir," said Lilly, "for your calculations
are ever most exact."

"My labour is not thrown away, Mr. Lilly," cried Quatremain, who had
finished his task at the same time. "I have discovered what I have long
suspected, that treasure _is_ hidden in Saint Paul's Cathedral. Mercury
is posited in the north angle of the fourth house; the dragon's tail is
likewise within it; and as Sol is the significator, it must be gold."

"True," replied Lilly.

"Furthermore," proceeded Quatremain, "as the sign is earthy, the
treasure must be buried in the vaults."

"Undoubtedly," replied Booker.

"I am all impatience to search for it," said Quatremain. "Let us go
there at once, and make trial of the mosaical rods."

"With all my heart," replied Lilly. "My lord," he added to Rochester, "I
must pray you to excuse me. You have heard what claims my attention."

"I have," returned the earl, "and should like to accompany you in the
quest, if you will permit me."

"You must address yourself to Mr. Quatremain," rejoined Lilly. "If he
consents, I can make no objection."

The minor canon, on being appealed to, signified his acquiescence, and
after some slight preparation, Lilly produced two hazel rods, and the
party set out.

A few minutes' walking brought them to the northern entrance of the
cathedral, where they speedily aroused the poor verger, who began to
fancy he was to have no rest that night. On learning their purpose,
however, he displayed the utmost alacrity, and by Quatremain's
directions went in search of his brother-verger, and a mason, who, being
employed at the time in making repairs in the chantries, lodged within
the cathedral.

This occasioned a delay of a few minutes, during which Rochester and
Etherege had an opportunity, like that enjoyed a short time before by
Leonard Holt, of beholding the magnificent effect of the columned aisles
by moonlight. By this time the other verger, who was a young and active
man, and the mason, arrived, and mattocks, spades, and an iron bar being
procured, and a couple of torches lighted, they descended to Saint
Faith's.

Nothing more picturesque can be conceived than the effect of the
torchlight on the massive pillars and low-browed roof of the
subterranean church. Nor were the figures inappropriate to the scene.
Lilly, with the mosaical rods in his hand, which he held at a short
distance from the floor, moving first to one point, then to another; now
lingering within the gloomy nave, now within the gloomier aisles; the
grave minor canon, who kept close beside him, and watched his movements
with the most intense anxiety; Booker, with his venerable head
uncovered, and his bald brow reflecting the gleam of the torches; the
two court gallants in their rich attire; and the vergers and their
comrade, armed with the implements for digging;--all constituted a
striking picture. And as Rochester stepped aside to gaze at it, he
thought he had never beheld a more singular scene.

Hitherto, no success had attended the searchers. The mosaical rods had
continued motionless. At length, however, Lilly reached a part of the
wall where a door appeared to have been stopped up, and playing the rods
near it, they turned one over the other.

"The treasure is here!" he exclaimed. "It is hidden beneath this flag."

Instantly, all were in action. Quatremain called to his assistants to
bring their mattocks and the iron bar. Rochester ran up and tendered his
aid; Etherege did the same; and in a few moments the flag was forced
from its position.

On examination, it seemed as if the ground beneath it had been recently
disturbed, though it was carefully trodden down. But without stopping to
investigate the matter, the mason and the younger verger commenced
digging. When they were tired, Lilly and Quatremain took their places,
and in less than an hour they had got to the depth of upwards of four
feet. Still nothing had been found, and Lilly was just about to
relinquish his spade to the mason, when, plunging it more deeply into
the ground, it struck against some hard substance.

"It is here--we have it!" he cried, renewing his exertions.

Seconded by Quatremain, they soon cleared off the soil, and came to what
appeared to be a coffin or a large chest. Both then got out of the pit
to consider how they should remove the chest; the whole party were
discussing the matter, when a tremendous crash, succeeded by a terrific
yell, was heard at the other end of the church, and a ghastly and
half-naked figure, looking like a corpse broken from the tomb, rushed
forward with lightning swiftness, and shrieking--"My treasure!--my
treasure!--you shall not have it!"--thrust aside the group, and plunged
into the excavation.

When the bystanders recovered sufficient courage to drag the unfortunate
sexton out of the pit, they found him quite dead.


IX.

THE MINIATURE.

According to his promise, Doctor Hodges visited the grocer's house early
on the following day, and the favourable opinion he had expressed
respecting Stephen Bloundel was confirmed by the youth's appearance. The
pustule had greatly increased in size; but this the doctor looked upon
as a good sign: and after applying fresh poultices, and administering a
hot posset-drink, he covered the patient with blankets, and recommending
as much tranquillity as possible, he proceeded, at Bloundel's request,
to ascertain the state of health of the rest of the family. Satisfied
that all the household (including Blaize, who, being a little out of
order from the quantity of medicine he had swallowed, kept his bed) were
uninfected, he went upstairs, and finding the two boys quite well, and
playing with their little sister Christiana, in the happy
unconsciousness of childhood, he tapped at the door of Mrs. Bloundel's
chamber, and was instantly admitted. Amabel did not raise her eyes at
his entrance, but continued the employment on which she was engaged. Her
mother, however, overwhelmed him with inquiries as to the sufferer, and
entreated him to prevail upon her husband to let her take his place at
the sick bed.

"I cannot accede to your request, madam," replied Hodges; "because I
think the present arrangement the best that could be adopted."

"And am I not to see poor Stephen again?" cried Mrs. Bloundel, bursting
into tears.

"I hope you will soon see him again, and not lose sight of him for many
years to come," replied the doctor. "As far as I can judge, the danger
is over, and, aided by your husband's care and watchfulness, I have
little doubt of bringing the youth round."

"You reconcile me to the deprivation, doctor," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel;
"but can you insure my husband against the distemper?"

"I can insure no one against contagion," replied Hodges; "but there is
much in his favour. He has no fear, and takes every needful precaution.
You must hope for the best. I think it right to tell you, that you will
be separated from him for a month."

"Separated from my husband for a month, doctor!" cried Mrs. Bloundel. "I
must see him to-day. I have something of importance to say to him."

At this point of the conversation Amabel for the first time looked up.
Her eyes were red and inflamed with weeping, and her looks betrayed
great internal suffering.

"You cannot see my father, mother," she said in a broken and
supplicatory tone.

"But she can write to him, or send a message by me," rejoined Hodges. "I
will deliver it when I go downstairs."

"What my mother has to say cannot be confided to a third party, sir,"
returned Amabel.

"Better defer it, then," said the doctor, who, as he looked hard at her,
and saw the colour mount to her cheeks, began to suspect something of
the truth. "Whatever you have to say, Mrs. Bloundel, may be very well
delayed; for the house is now closed, with a watchman at the door, and
will continue so for a month to come. No one can quit it, except members
of our profession, searchers, nurses, and other authorized persons,
during that time."

"But can no one enter it, do you think?" asked Mrs. Bloundel.

"No one would desire to do so, I should conceive, except a lover,"
replied Hodges, with a sly look at Amabel, who instantly averted her
gaze. "Where a pretty girl is concerned, the plague itself has no
terrors."

"Precisely my opinion, doctor," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel; "and as I cannot
consult my husband, perhaps you will favour me with your advice as to
how I ought to act, if such a person as you describe should get into the
house."

"I seldom meddle with family matters," rejoined Hodges; "but I feel so
much interest in all that relates to Mr. Bloundel, that I am induced to
depart from my rule on the present occasion. It is evident you have lost
your heart," he added, to Amabel, whose blushes told him he was right;
"but not, I hope, to one of those worthless court-gallants, who, as I
learn from common report, are in the habit of toasting you daily. If it
is so, you must subdue your passion; for it cannot lead to good. Be not
dazzled by a brilliant exterior, which often conceals a treacherous
heart; but try to fix your affections on some person of little
pretension, but of solid worth. Never, I grieve to say, was there a
season when such universal profligacy prevailed as at present. Never was
it so necessary for a young maiden, possessed of beauty like yours, to
act with discretion. Never was a court so licentious as that of our
sovereign, Charles the Second, whose corrupt example is imitated by
every one around him, while its baneful influence extends to all
classes. Were I to echo the language of the preachers, I should say it
was owing to the wickedness and immorality of the times that this
dreadful judgment of the plague has been inflicted upon us; but I merely
bring it forward as an argument to prove to you, Amabel, that if you
would escape the moral contagion by which you are threatened, you must
put the strictest guard upon your conduct."

Amabel faintly murmured her thanks.

"You speak as my husband himself would have spoken," said Mrs. Bloundel.
"Ah! we little thought, when we prayed that the pestilence might be
averted from us, that a worse calamity was behind, and that one of the
most profligate of the courtiers you have mentioned would find his way
to our house."

"One of the most profligate of them?" cried Hodges. "Who, in Heaven's
name?"

"He calls himself Maurice Wyvil," replied Mrs. Bloundel.

"I never heard of such a person," rejoined the doctor. "It must be an
assumed name. Have you no letter or token that might lead to his
discovery?" he added, turning to Amabel.

"I have his portrait," she replied, drawing a small miniature from her
bosom.

"I am glad I have seen this," said the doctor, slightly starting as he
cast his eyes upon it. "I hope it is not too late to save you, Amabel,"
he added, in a severe tone. "I hope you are free from contamination?"

"As I live, I am," she replied. "But you recognise the likeness?"

"I do," returned Hodges. "It is the portrait of one whose vices and
depravity are the town's cry, and whose name coupled with that of a
woman, is sufficient to sully her reputation."

"It is the Earl of Rochester," said Mrs. Bloundel.

"You have guessed aright," replied the doctor; "it is."

Uttering an exclamation of surprise and terror, Amabel fell back in her
chair.

"I thought it must be that wicked nobleman," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "Would
you believe it, doctor, that he forced himself into the house--nay, into
this room--last night, and would have carried off my daughter, in spite
of her resistance, if I had not prevented him."

"I can believe anything of him," replied Hodges. "But your husband, of
course, knows nothing of the matter?"

"Not as yet," replied Mrs. Bloundel; "but I authorize you to tell him
all."

"Mother, dear mother," cried Amabel, flinging herself on her knees
before her, "I implore you not to add to my father's present distress. I
might not have been able to conquer my attachment to Maurice Wyvil, but
now that I find he is the Earl of Rochester, I regard him with
abhorrence."

"If I could believe you sincere," said Mrs. Bloundel, "I might be
induced to spare your father the pain which the knowledge of this
unfortunate affair would necessarily inflict."

"I am sincere,--indeed I am," replied Amabel.

"To prove that the earl could not have had honourable intentions towards
you, Amabel," said the doctor, "I may mention that he is at this moment
urging his suit with Mistress Mallet,--a young heiress."

"Ah!" exclaimed Amabel."

"I was in attendance upon Mistress Stewart, the king's present
favourite, the day before yesterday," continued Hodges, "and heard his
majesty entreat her to use her influence with Mistress Mallet in
Rochester's behalf. After this, you cannot doubt the nature of his
intentions towards yourself."

"I cannot--I cannot," rejoined Amabel. "He is perfidy itself. But is
Mistress Mallet very beautiful, doctor?"

"Very beautiful, and very rich," he replied, "and the earl is
desperately in love with her. I heard him declare laughingly to the
king, that if she would not consent to marry him, he would carry her
off."

"Just what he said to me," exclaimed Amabel--"perjured and faithless
that he is!"

"Harp on that string, doctor," whispered Mrs. Bloundel. "You understand
her feelings exactly."

"Strangely enough," pursued the doctor, who, having carefully examined
the miniature, had opened the back of the case, and could not repress a
smile at what he beheld--"strangely enough, this very picture will
convince you of the earl's inconstancy. It was evidently designed for
Mistress Mallet, and, as she would not accept it, transferred to you."

"How do you know this, sir?" inquired Amabel, in a mortified tone.

"Hear what is written within it," answered Hodges, laying the open case
before her, and reading as follows: "'To the sole possessor of his
heart, the fair Mistress Mallet, this portrait is offered by her devoted
slave--ROCHESTER.' 'The _sole_ possessor of his heart!' So you have no
share in it, you perceive, Amabel. 'Her devoted slave!' Is he your slave
likewise? Ha! ha!"

"It _is_ his writing," cried Amabel. "This note," she added, producing a
billet, "is in the same hand. My eyes are indeed open to his treachery."

"I am glad to hear it," replied Hodges, "and if I can preserve you from
the snares of this noble libertine, I shall rejoice as much as in curing
your brother of the plague. But can you rely upon yourself, in case the
earl should make another attempt to see you?"

"I can," she averred confidently.

"In that case there is nothing to apprehend," rejoined Hodges; "and I
think it better on many accounts not to mention the subject to your
father. It would only distract his mind, and prevent him from duly
discharging the painful task he has undertaken. Were I in your place,
Amabel, I would not only forget my present perfidious lover, but would
instantly bestow my affections on some worthy person."

"It would gladden me if she would do so," said Mrs. Bloundel.

"There is your father's apprentice, Leonard Holt, a good-looking,
well-grown lad," pursued the doctor; "and I much mistake if he is
insensible to your attractions."

"I am sure he loves her dearly, doctor," replied Mrs. Bloundel. "He is
as well-principled as well-looking. I have never had a fault to find
with him since he came to live with us. It will rejoice me, and I am
sure would not displease my husband, to see our child united to Leonard
Holt."

"Well, what say you, Amabel?" asked Hodges. "Can you give him a hope?"

"Alas, no!" replied Amabel; "I have been deceived once, but I will not
be deceived a second time. I will never wed."

"So every woman says after her first disappointment," observed Hodges;
"but not one in ten adheres to the resolution. When you become calmer, I
would recommend you to think seriously of Leonard Holt."

At this moment, a tap was heard at the door, and opening it, the doctor
beheld the person in question.

"What is the matter?" cried Hodges. "I hope nothing is amiss."

"Nothing whatever," replied Leonard, "but my master wishes to see you
before you leave the house."

"I will go to him at once," replied the doctor. "Good day, Mrs.
Bloundel. Take care of your daughter, and I hope she will take care of
herself. We have been talking about you, young man," he added in a low
tone to the apprentice, "and I have recommended you as a husband to
Amabel."

"There was a time, sir," rejoined Leonard, in a tone of deep emotion,
"when I hoped it might be so, but that time is past."

"No such thing," replied the doctor. "Now is the time to make an
impression. Her heart is on the rebound. She is satisfied of her lover's
treachery. Her mother is on your side. Do not neglect the present
opportunity, for another may not arrive." With this he pushed Leonard
into the room, and, shutting the door upon him, hurried downstairs.

"You have arrived at a seasonable juncture, Leonard," observed Mrs.
Bloundel, noticing the apprentice's perplexity, and anxious to relieve
it. "We have just discovered that the person calling himself Maurice
Wyvil is no other than the Earl of Rochester."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard.

"Yes, indeed," returned Mrs. Bloundel. "But this is not all. Amabel has
promised to forget him, and I have urged her to think of you."

"Amabel," said Leonard, advancing towards her, and taking her hand, "I
can scarcely credit what I hear. Will you confirm your mother's words?"

"Leonard," returned Amabel, "I am not insensible to your good qualities,
and no one can more truly esteem you than I do. Nay, till I
unfortunately saw the Earl of Rochester, whom I knew not as such, I
might have loved you. But now I cannot call my heart my own. I have not
the affection you deserve to bestow upon you. If I can obliterate this
treacherous man's image from my memory--and Heaven, I trust, will give
me strength to do so--I will strive to replace it with your own."

"That is all I ask," cried Leonard, dropping on his knee before her, and
pressing his lips to her hand.

"Nothing would make me happier than to see you united, my children,"
said Mrs. Bloundel, bending affectionately over them.

"And I would do anything to make you happy, dear mother," replied
Amabel, gently withdrawing her hand, from that of the apprentice.

"Before I leave you," said Leonard, rising, "I must give you this note.
I found it lying before your chamber door as I passed this morning. How
it came there I know not, but I can give a shrewd guess as to the
writer. I ought to tell you, that but for what has just occurred, I
should not have delivered it to you."

"It is from Wyvil--I mean Rochester," said Amabel, taking the note with
a trembling hand.

"Let me see it, child," cried Mrs. Bloundel, snatching it from her, and
breaking the seal. "Insolent!" she exclaimed, as she cast her eyes over
it. "I can scarcely contain my indignation. But let him cross my path
again, and he shall find whether I cannot resent such shameful usage."

"What does he say, dear mother ?" asked Amabel.

"You shall hear," replied Mrs. Bloundel, "though I blush to repeat his
words: 'Amabel, you are mine. No one shall keep you from me. Love like
mine will triumph over all obstacles!'--Love like his, forsooth!" she
remarked; "let him keep such stuff as that for Mistress Mallet, or his
other mistresses. But I will go on: 'I may be foiled ninety-nine times,
but the hundredth will succeed. We shall soon meet again.
  'MAURICE WYVIL.'"

"Never!" cried Amabel. "We will never meet again. If he holds me thus
cheaply, I will let him see that he is mistaken. Leonard Holt, I have
told you the exact state of my feelings. I do not love you now, but I
regard you as a true friend, and love may come hereafter. If in a
month's time you claim my hand; if my father consents to our union, for
you are aware that my mother will not oppose it--I am yours."

Leonard attempted to speak, but his voice was choked with emotion, and
the tears started to his eyes.

"Farewell," said Amabel. "Do not let us meet till the appointed time.
Rest assured, I will think of you as you deserve."

"We could not meet till that time, even if you desired it," said
Leonard, "for your father has forbidden any of the household, except old
Josyna, to approach you till all fear of contagion is at an end, and I
am now transgressing his commands. But your mother, I am sure, will
acquit me of intentional disobedience."

"I do," replied Mrs. Bloundel; "it was the doctor who forced you into
the room. But I am heartily glad he did so."

"Farewell, Amabel," said Leonard. "Though I shall not see you, I will
watch carefully over you." And gazing at her with unutterable affection,
he quitted the chamber.

"You must now choose between the heartless and depraved nobleman, who
would desert you as soon as won," observed Mrs. Bloundel, "and the
honest apprentice, whose life would be devoted to your happiness."

"I _have_ chosen," replied her daughter.

Doctor Hodges found the grocer writing at a small table, close to the
bedside of his son.

"I am happy to tell you, Mr. Bloundel," he said, in a low tone, as he
entered the room, "that all your family are still free from infection,
and with due care will, I hope, continue so. But I entirely approve of
your resolution of keeping apart from them till the month has expired.
If your son goes on as he is doing now, he will be as strong as ever in
less than a fortnight. Still, as we cannot foresee what may occur, it is
better to err on the cautious side."

"Pray be seated for a moment," rejoined the grocer, motioning the other
to the chair. "I mentioned to you last night that in case my son
recovered, I had a plan which I trusted (under Providence!) would
preserve my family from the further assaults of the pestilence."

"I remember your alluding to it," replied Hodges, "and should be glad to
know what it is."

"I must tell it you in confidence," rejoined Bloundel, "because I think
secresy essential to its entire accomplishment. My plan is a very simple
one, and only requires firmness in its execution--and that quality, I
think, I possess. It is your opinion, I know, as it is my own, that the
plague will increase in violence and endure for months--probably, till
next winter. My intention is to store my house with provisions, as a
ship is victualled for a long voyage, and then to shut it up entirely
till the scourge ceases."

"If your project is practicable," said Hodges, after a moment's
reflection, "I have no doubt it will be attended, with every good result
you can desire. This house, which is large and roomy, is well adapted
for your purpose. But you must consider well whether your family will
submit to be imprisoned during the long period you propose."

"They shall remain close prisoners, even if the pestilence lasts for a
twelvemonth," replied the grocer. "Whoever quits the house, when it is
once closed, and on whatever plea, be it wife, son, or daughter, returns
not. That is my fixed resolve."

"And you are right," rejoined Hodges, "for on that determination the
success of your scheme entirely depends."

While they were thus conversing, Leonard entered the chamber, and
informed his master that Chowles, the coffin-maker, and Mrs. Malmayns,
the plague-nurse, desired to see him.

"Mrs. Malmayns!" exclaimed Hodges, in surprise. "I heard that something
very extraordinary occurred last night in Saint Faith's. With your
permission, Mr. Bloundel, she shall be admitted; I want to ask her a few
questions. You had better hesitate about engaging her," he observed to
the grocer, as Leonard departed, "for she is a woman of very indifferent
character, though she may (for aught I know) be a good and fearless
nurse."

"If there is any doubt about her, I _cannot_ hesitate," returned
Bloundel.

As he said this, the door was opened by Leonard, and Chowles and Judith
entered the room. The latter, on seeing the doctor, looked greatly
embarrassed.

"I have brought you the nurse I spoke of, Mr. Bloundel," said Chowles,
bowing, "and am come to inquire whether you want a coffin to-night."

"Mr. Bloundel is not likely to require a coffin at present, Chowles,"
returned the doctor, severely; "neither does his son stand in need of a
nurse. How is your husband, Mrs. Malmayns?"

"He is dead, sir," replied Judith.

"Dead!" echoed the doctor. "When I left him at one o'clock this morning,
he was doing well. Your attendance seems to have accelerated his end."

"His death was occasioned by an accident, sir," replied Judith. "He
became delirious about three o'clock, and, in spite of all my efforts to
detain him, started out of bed, rushed into Saint Faith's, and threw
himself into a pit, which Mr. Lilly and some other persons had digged in
search of treasure."

"This is a highly improbable story, Mrs. Malmayns," returned Hodges,
"and I must have the matter thoroughly investigated before I lose sight
of you."

"I will vouch for the truth of Mrs. Malmayn's statement," interposed
Chowles.

"You!" cried Hodges, contemptuously.

"Yes, I," replied the coffin-maker. "It seems that the sexton had found
a chest of treasure buried in Saint Faith's, and being haunted by the
idea that some one was carrying it off, he suddenly sprang out of bed,
and rushed to the church, where, sure enough, Mr. Lilly, Mr. Quatremain,
the Earl of Rochester, and Sir George Etherege, having, by the help of
mosaical rods, discovered this very chest, were digging it up. Poor
Matthew instantly plunged into the grave, and died of a sudden chill."

"That is not impossible," observed Hodges, after a pause. "But what has
become of the treasure?"

"It is in the possession of Mr. Quatremain, who has given notice of it
to the proper authorities," replied Chowles. "It consists, as I
understand, of gold pieces struck in the reign of Philip and Mary,
images of the same metal, crosses, pyxes, chalices, and other Popish and
superstitious vessels, buried, probably, when Queen Elizabeth came to
the throne, and the religion changed."

"Not unlikely," replied Hodges. "Where is your husband's body, Mrs.
Malmayns?"

"It has been removed to the vault which he usually occupied," replied
Judith. "Mr. Chowles has undertaken to bury it to-night."

"I must see it first," replied Hodges, "and be sure that he has not met
with foul play."

"And I will accompany you," said Chowles. "So you do not want a coffin,
Mr. Bloundel?"

The grocer shook his head.

"Good day, Mr. Bloundel," said Hodges. "I shall visit you to-morrow, and
hope to find your son as well as I leave him. Chowles, you will be
answerable for the safe custody of Mrs. Malmayns."

"I have no desire to escape, sir," replied the nurse. "You will find
everything as I have represented."

"We shall see," replied the doctor. "If not, you will have to tend the
sick in Newgate."

The trio then proceeded to Saint Paul's, and descended to the vaults.
Hodges carefully examined the body of the unfortunate sexton, but though
he entertained strong suspicions, he could not pronounce positively that
he had been improperly treated; and as the statement of Mrs. Malmayns
was fully borne out by the vergers and others, he did not think it
necessary to pursue the investigation further. As soon as he was gone,
Judith accompanied the coffin-maker to his residence, where she
remained, till the evening, when she was suddenly summoned, in a case of
urgency, by a messenger from Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell.


X.

THE DUEL.

After Parravicin's terrible announcement, Disbrowe offered him no
further violence, but, flinging down his sword, burst open the door, and
rushed upstairs. His wife was still insensible, but the fatal mark that
had betrayed the presence of the plague to the knight manifested itself
also to him, and he stood like one entranced, until Mrs. Disbrowe,
recovering from her swoon, opened her eyes, and, gazing at him,
cried--"You here!--Oh Disbrowe, I dreamed you had deserted me--had sold
me to another."

"Would it were a dream!" replied her husband.

"And was it not so?" she rejoined, pressing her hand to her temples. "It
is true! oh! yes, I feel it is. Every circumstance rushes upon me
plainly and distinctly. I see the daring libertine before me. He stood
where you stand, and told me what you had done."

"What did he tell you, Margaret?" asked Disbrowe in a hollow voice.

"He told me you were false--that you loved another, and had abandoned
me."

"He lied!" exclaimed Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. "It is
true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you--yes, _you_,
Margaret--against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up
the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to
you--never."

"Faithless or not," replied his wife, bitterly, "it is plain you value
me less than play, or you would not have acted thus."

"Reproach me not, Margaret," replied Disbrowe; "I would give worlds to
undo what I have done."

"Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?" said Mrs.
Disbrowe, coldly. "But you have not yet informed me how I was saved."

Disbrowe averted his head.

"What mean you?" she cried, seizing his arm. "What has happened? Do not
keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?"

"Your preserver was the plague," rejoined Disbrowe, in a sombre tone.

The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was
attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken
only by exclamations of anguish from both.

"Disbrowe!" cried Margaret, at length, raising herself in bed, "you have
deeply--irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing."

"I swear to do whatever you may desire," he replied.

"I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the
deed," she continued. "But I would have you kill this man."

"I will do it," replied Disbrowe.

"Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me," she
rejoined. "Challenge him to a duel--a mortal duel. If he survives, by my
soul, I will give myself to him."

"Margaret!" exclaimed Disbrowe.

"I swear it," she rejoined. "And you know my passionate nature too well
to doubt I will keep my word."

"But you have the plague!"

"What does that matter? I may recover."

"Not so," muttered Disbrowe. "If I fall, I will take care you do not
recover. I will fight him to-morrow," he added aloud.

He then summoned his servants, but when they found their mistress was
attacked by the plague, they framed some excuse to leave the room, and
instantly fled the house. Driven almost to his wits' end, Disbrowe went
in search of other assistance, and was for a while unsuccessful, until a
coachman, to whom he applied, offered, for a suitable reward, to drive
to Clerkenwell--to the shop of an apothecary named Sibbald (with whose
name the reader is already familiar), who was noted for his treatment of
plague patients, and to bring him to the other's residence. Disbrowe
immediately closed with the man, and in less than two hours Sibbald made
his appearance. He was a singular and repulsive personage, with an
immense hooked nose, dark, savage-looking eyes, a skin like parchment,
and high round shoulders, which procured him the nickname of Aesop among
his neighbours. He was under the middle size, and of a spare figure, and
in age might be about sixty-five.

On seeing Mrs. Disbrowe, he at once boldly asserted that he could cure
her, and proceeded to apply his remedies. Finding the servants fled, he
offered to procure a nurse for Disbrowe, and the latter, thanking him,
eagerly embraced the offer. Soon after this he departed. In the evening
the nurse, who (as may be surmised) was no other than Judith Malmayns,
arrived, and immediately commenced her functions.

Disbrowe had no rest that night. His wife slept occasionally for a few
minutes, but, apparently engrossed by one idea, never failed when she
awoke to urge him to slay Parravicin; repeating her oath to give herself
to the knight if he came off victorious. Worn out at length, Disbrowe
gave her a terrible look, and rushed out of the room.

He had not been alone many minutes when he was surprised by the entrance
of Judith. He eagerly inquired whether his wife was worse, but was
informed she had dropped into a slumber.

"Hearing what has passed between you," said the nurse, "and noticing
your look when you left the room, I came to tell you, that if you fall
in this duel, your last moments need not be embittered by any thoughts
of your wife. I will take care she does not recover."

A horrible smile lighted up Disbrowe's features.

"You are the very person I want," he said. "When I would do evil, the
fiend rises to my bidding. If I am slain, you know what to do. How shall
I requite the service?"

"Do not concern yourself about that, captain," rejoined Judith. "I will
take care of myself."

About noon, on the following day, Disbrowe, without venturing to see his
wife, left the house, and proceeded to the Smyrna, where, as he
expected, he found Parravicin and his companions.

The knight instantly advanced towards him, and, laying aside for the
moment his reckless air, inquired, with a look of commiseration, after
his wife.

"She is better," replied Disbrowe, fiercely. "I am come to settle
accounts with you."

"I thought they were settled long ago," returned Parravicin, instantly
resuming his wonted manner. "But I am glad to find you consider the debt
unpaid."

Disbrowe lifted the cane he held in his hand, and struck the knight with
it forcibly on the shoulder. "Be that my answer," he said.

"I will have your life first, and your wife afterwards," replied
Parravicin, furiously.

"You shall have her if you slay me, but not otherwise," retorted
Disbrowe. "It must be a mortal duel."

"It must," replied Parravicin. "I will not spare you this time."

"Spare him!" cried Pillichody. "Shield of Agamemnon! I should hope not.
Spit him as you would a wild boar."

"Peace, fool!" cried Parravicin. "Captain Disbrowe, I shall instantly
proceed to the west side of Hyde Park, beneath the trees. I shall expect
you there. On my return I shall call on your wife."

"I pray you do so, sir," replied Disbrowe, disdainfully.

Both then quitted the coffee-house, Parravicin attended by Rochester and
Pillichody, and Disbrowe accompanied by a military friend, whom he
accidentally encountered. Each party taking a coach, they soon reached
the ground,--a retired spot, completely screened from observation by
trees. The preliminaries were soon arranged, for neither would admit of
delay. The conflict then commenced with great fury on both sides; but
Parravicin, in spite of his passion, observed far more caution than his
antagonist; and, taking advantage of an unguarded movement, occasioned
by the other's impetuosity, passed his sword through his body.

Disbrowe fell.

"You are again successful," he groaned, "but save my wife--save her."

"What mean you?" cried Parravicin, leaning over him, as he wiped his
sword.

But Disbrowe could make no answer. His utterance was choked by a sudden
effusion of blood on the lungs, and he instantly expired. Leaving the
body in care of the second, Parravicin and his friends returned to the
coach, where the major rejoiced greatly at the issue of the duel; but
the knight looked grave, and pondered upon the words of the dying man.
After a time, however, he recovered his spirits, and dined with his
friends at the Smyrna; but they observed that he drank more deeply than
usual. His excesses did not, however, prevent him from playing with his
usual skill, and he won a large sum from Rochester at hazard.

Flushed with success, and heated with wine, he walked up to Disbrowe's
residence about an hour after midnight. As he approached the house, he
observed a strangely-shaped cart at the door, and, halting for a moment,
saw a body, wrapped in a shroud, brought out. Could it be Mrs. Disbrowe?
Rushing forward, to one of the assistants in black cloaks--and who was
no other than Chowles--he asked whom he was about to inter.

"It is a Mrs. Disbrowe," replied the coffin-maker. "She died of grief,
because her husband was killed this morning in a duel; but as she had
the plague, it must be put down to that. We are not particular in such
matters, and shall bury her and her husband together; and as there is no
money left to pay for coffins, they must go to the grave without them.
What, ho! Mother Malmayns, let Jonas have the captain as soon as you
have stripped him. I must be starting."

And as the body of his victim was brought forth, Parravicin fell against
the wall in a state almost of stupefaction.

At this moment Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, suddenly
turned the corner of the street, and stationing himself before the
dead-cart, cried in a voice of thunder, "Woe to the libertine! woe to
the homicide! for he shall perish in everlasting fire! Woe! woe!"




BOOK THE SECOND.

MAY, 1665.


I.

PROGRESS OF THE PESTILENCE.

Towards the middle of May, the bills of mortality began to swell greatly
in amount, and though but few were put down to the plague, and a large
number to the spotted fever (another frightful disorder raging at the
period), it is well known that the bulk had died of the former disease.
The rigorous measures adopted by the authorities (whether salutary or
not has been questioned), in shutting up houses and confining the sick
and sound within them for forty days, were found so intolerable, that
most persons were disposed to run any risk rather than be subjected to
such a grievance, and every artifice was resorted to for concealing a
case when it occurred. Hence, it seldom happened, unless by accident,
that a discovery was made. Quack doctors were secretly consulted,
instead of the regular practitioners; the searchers were bribed to
silence; and large fees were given to the undertakers and buriers to lay
the deaths to the account of some other disorder. All this, however, did
not blind the eyes of the officers to the real state of things.
Redoubling their vigilance, they entered houses on mere suspicion;
inflicted punishments where they found their orders disobeyed or
neglected; sent the sound to prison,--the sick to the pest-house; and
replaced the faithless searchers by others upon whom they could place
reliance. Many cases were thus detected; but in spite of every
precaution, the majority escaped; and the vent was no sooner stopped in
one quarter than it broke out with additional violence in another.

By this time the alarm had become general. All whose business or
pursuits permitted it, prepared to leave London, which they regarded as
a devoted city, without delay. As many houses were, therefore, closed
from the absence of the inhabitants as from the presence of the plague,
and this added to the forlorn appearance of the streets, which in some
quarters were almost deserted. For a while, nothing was seen at the
great outlets of the city but carts, carriages, and other vehicles,
filled with goods and movables, on their way to the country; and, as may
be supposed, the departure of their friends did not tend to abate the
dejection of those whose affairs compelled them to remain behind.

One circumstance must not be passed unnoticed, namely, the continued
fineness and beauty of the weather. No rain had fallen for upwards of
three weeks. The sky was bright and cloudless; the atmosphere,
apparently, pure and innoxious; while the heat was as great as is
generally experienced in the middle of summer. But instead of producing
its usual enlivening effect on the spirits, the fine weather added to
the general gloom and apprehension, inasmuch as it led to the belief
(afterwards fully confirmed), that if the present warmth was so
pernicious, the more sultry seasons which were near at hand would
aggravate the fury of the pestilence. Sometimes, indeed, when the deaths
were less numerous, a hope began to be entertained that the distemper
was abating, and confidence was for a moment restored; but these
anticipations were speedily checked by the reappearance of the scourge,
which seemed to baffle and deride all human skill and foresight.

London now presented a lamentable spectacle. Not a street but had a
house in it marked with a red cross--some streets had many such. The
bells were continually tolling for burials, and the dead-carts went
their melancholy rounds at night and were constantly loaded. Fresh
directions were issued by the authorities; and as domestic animals were
considered to be a medium of conveying the infection, an order, which
was immediately carried into effect, was given to destroy all dogs and
cats. But this plan proved prejudicial rather than the reverse, as the
bodies of the poor animals, most of which were drowned in the Thames,
being washed ashore, produced a horrible and noxious effluvium, supposed
to contribute materially to the propagation of the distemper.

No precautionary measure was neglected; but it may be doubted whether
any human interference could have averted the severity of the scourge,
which, though its progress might be checked for a few days by attention,
or increased in the same ratio by neglect, would in the end have
unquestionably fulfilled its mission. The College of Physicians, by the
king's command, issued simple and intelligible directions, in the mother
tongue, for the sick. Certain of their number, amongst whom was the
reader's acquaintance, Doctor Hodges, were appointed to attend the
infected; and two out of the Court of Aldermen were required to see that
they duly executed their dangerous office. Public prayers and a general
fast were likewise enjoined. But Heaven seemed deaf to the supplications
of the doomed inhabitants--their prayers being followed by a fearful
increase of deaths. A vast crowd was collected within Saint Paul's to
hear a sermon preached by Doctor Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury,--a
prelate greatly distinguished during the whole course of the visitation,
by his unremitting charity and attention to the sick; and before the
discourse was concluded, several fell down within the sacred walls, and,
on being conveyed to their own homes, were found to be infected.  On the
following day, too, many others who had been present were seized with
the disorder.

A fresh impulse was given to the pestilence from an unlooked for cause.
It has been mentioned that the shutting up of houses and seclusion of
the sick were regarded as an intolerable grievance, and though most were
compelled to submit to it, some few resisted, and tumults and
disturbances ensued. As the plague increased, these disturbances became
more frequent, and the mob always taking part against the officers, they
were frequently interrupted in the execution of their duty.

About this time a more serious affray than usual occurred, attended-with
loss of life and other unfortunate consequences, which it may be worth
while to relate, as illustrative of the peculiar state of the times. The
wife of a merchant, named Barcroft, residing in Lothbury, being attacked
by the plague, the husband, fearing his house would be shut up, withheld
all information from the examiners and searchers. His wife died, and
immediately afterwards one of his children was attacked. Still he
refused to give notice. The matter, however, got wind. The searchers
arrived at night, and being refused admittance, they broke into the
house. Finding undoubted evidence of infection, they ordered it to be
closed, stationed a watchman at the door, and marked it with the fatal
sign. Barcroft remonstrated against their proceedings, but in vain. They
told him he might think himself well off that he was not carried before
the Lord Mayor, who would undoubtedly send him to Ludgate; and with
other threats to the like effect, they departed.

The unfortunate man's wife and child were removed the following night in
the dead-cart, and, driven half-mad by grief and terror, he broke open
the door of his dwelling, and, plunging a sword in the watchman's
breast, who opposed his flight, gained the street. A party of the watch
happened to be passing at the time, and the fugitive was instantly
secured. He made a great clamour, however,--calling to his neighbours
and the bystanders to rescue him, and in another moment the watch was
beaten off, and Barcroft placed on a post, whence he harangued his
preservers on the severe restraints imposed upon the citizens, urging
them to assist in throwing open the doors of all infected houses, and
allowing free egress to their inmates.

Greedily listening to this insane counsel, the mob resolved to act upon
it. Headed by the merchant, they ran down Thread-needle-street, and,
crossing Stock's Market, burst open several houses in Bearbinder-lane,
and drove away the watchmen. One man, more courageous than the others,
tried to maintain his post, and was so severely handled by his
assailants, that he died a few days afterwards of the injuries he had
received. Most of those who had been imprisoned within their dwellings
immediately issued forth, and joining the mob, which received fresh
recruits each moment, started on the same errand.

Loud shouts were now raised of--"Open the doors! No plague prisoners! No
plague prisoners!" and the mob set off along the Poultry. They halted,
however, before the Great Conduit, near the end of Bucklersbury, and
opposite Mercer's Hall, because they perceived a company of the
Train-bands advancing to meet them. A council of war was held, and many
of the rabble were disposed to fly; but Barcroft again urged them to
proceed, and they were unexpectedly added by Solomon Eagle, who,
bursting through their ranks, with his brazier on his head, crying,
"Awake! sleepers, awake! the plague is at your doors! awake!" speeded
towards the Train-bands, scattering sparks of fire as he pursued his
swift career. The mob instantly followed, and, adding their shouts to
his outcries, dashed on with such fury that the Train-bands did not dare
to oppose them, and, after a slight and ineffectual resistance, were put
to rout.

Barcroft, who acted as leader, informed them that there was a house in
Wood-street shut up, and the crowd accompanied him thither. In a few
minutes they had reached Bloundel's shop, but finding no one on
guard--for the watchman, guessing their errand, had taken to his
heels--they smeared over the fatal cross and inscription with a pail of
mud gathered from the neighbouring kennel, and then broke open the door.
The grocer and his apprentice hearing the disturbance, and being greatly
alarmed at it, hurried to the shop, and found it full of people.

"You are at liberty Mr. Bloundel," cried the merchant, who was
acquainted with the grocer. "We are determined no longer to let our
families be imprisoned at the pleasure of the Lord Mayor and aldermen.
We mean to break open all the plague houses, and set free their
inmates."

"For Heaven's sake, consider what you are about, Mr. Barcroft," cried
the grocer. "My house has been closed for nearly a month. Nay, as my son
has entirely recovered, and received his certificate of health from
Doctor Hodges, it would have been opened in three days hence by the
officers; so that I have suffered all the inconvenience of the
confinement, and can speak to it. It is no doubt very irksome, and may
be almost intolerable to persons of an impatient temperament: but I
firmly believe it is the only means to check the progress of contagion.
Listen to me, Mr. Barcroft--listen to me, good friends, and hesitate
before you violate laws which have been made expressly to meet this
terrible emergency."

Here he was checked by loud groans and upbraidings from the bystanders.

"He tells you himself that the period of his confinement is just over,"
cried Barcroft. "It is plain he has no interest in the matter, except
that he would have others suffer as he has done. Heed him not, my
friends; but proceed with the good work. Liberate the poor plague
prisoners. Liberate them. On! on!"

"Forbear, rash men" cried Bloundel, in an authoritative voice. "In the
name of those you are bound to obey, I command you to desist."

"Command us!" cried one of the bystanders, raising his staff in a
menacing manner. "Is this your gratitude for the favour we have just
conferred upon you? Command us, forsooth! You had better repeat the
order, and see how it will be obeyed."

"I _do_ repeat it," rejoined the grocer, firmly. "In the Lord Mayor's
name, I command you to desist, and return to your homes."

The man would have struck him with his staff, if he had not been himself
felled to the ground by Leonard. This was the signal for greater
outrage. The grocer and his apprentice were instantly assailed by
several others of the mob, who, leaving them both on the floor covered
with bruises, helped themselves to all they could lay hands on in the
shop, and then quitted the premises.

It is scarcely necessary to track their course further; and it may be
sufficient to state, that they broke open upwards of fifty houses in
different streets. Many of the plague-stricken joined them, and several
half-naked creatures were found dead in the streets on the following
morning. Two houses in Blackfriars-lane were set on fire, and the
conflagration was with difficulty checked; nor was it until late on the
following day that the mob could be entirely dispersed. The originator
of the disturbance, Barcroft, after a desperate resistance, was shot
through the head by a constable.

The result of this riot, as will be easily foreseen, was greatly to
increase the pestilence; and many of those who had been most active in
it perished in prison of the distemper. Far from being discouraged by
the opposition offered to their decrees, the city authorities enforced
them with greater rigour than ever, and, doubling the number of the
watch, again shut up all those houses which had been broken open during
the late tumult.

Bloundel received a visit from the Lord Mayor, Sir John Lawrence, who,
having been informed of his conduct, came to express his high approval
of it, offering to remit the few days yet unexpired of his quarantine.
The grocer, however, declined the offer, and with renewed expressions of
approbation, Sir John Lawrence took his leave.

Three days afterwards, the Examiner of Health pronounced the grocer's
house free from infection. The fatal mark was obliterated from the door;
the shutters were unfastened; and Bloundel resumed his business as
usual. Words are inadequate to describe the delight that filled the
breast of every member of his family, on their first meeting after their
long separation. It took place in the room adjoining the shop. Mrs.
Bloundel received the joyful summons from Leonard, and, on descending
with her children, found her husband and her son Stephen anxiously
expecting her. Scarcely able to make up her mind as to which of the two
she should embrace first, Mrs. Bloundel was decided by the pale
countenance of her son, and rushing towards him, she strained him to her
breast, while Amabel flew to her father's arms. The grocer could not
repress his tears; but they were tears of joy, and that night's
happiness made him ample amends for all the anxiety he had recently
undergone.

"Well, Stephen, my dear child," said his mother, as soon as the first
tumult of emotion had subsided,--"well, Stephen," she said, smiling at
him through her tears, and almost smothering him with kisses, "you are
not so much altered as I expected; and I do not think, if I had had the
care of you, I could have nursed you better myself. You owe your father
a second life, and we all owe him the deepest gratitude for the care he
has taken of you."

"I can never be sufficiently grateful for his kindness," returned
Stephen, affectionately.

"Give thanks to the beneficent Being who has preserved you from this
great danger, my son, not to me," returned Bloundel. "The first moments
of our reunion should be worthily employed."

So saying, he summoned the household, and, for the first time for a
month, the whole family party assembled, as before, at prayer. Never
were thanksgivings more earnestly, more devoutly uttered. All arose with
bright and cheerful countenances; and even Blaize seemed to have shaken
off his habitual dread of the pestilence. As he retired with Patience,
he observed to her, "Master Stephen looks quite well, though a little
thinner. I must ascertain from him the exact course of treatment pursued
by his father. I wonder whether Mr. Bloundel would nurse _me_ if I were
to be suddenly seized with the distemper?"

"If he wouldn't, I _would_," replied Patience.

"Thank you, thank you," replied Blaize. "I begin to think we shall get
through it. I shall go out to-morrow and examine the bills of mortality,
and see what progress the plague is making. I am all anxiety to know. I
must get a fresh supply of medicine, too. My private store is quite
gone, except three of my favourite rufuses, which I shall take before I
go to bed to-night. Unluckily, my purse is as empty as my phials."

"I can lend you a little money," said Patience. "I haven't touched my
last year's wages. They are quite at your service."

"You are too good," replied Blaize; "but I won't decline the offer. I
heard a man crying a new anti-pestilential elixir, as he passed the
house yesterday. I must find him out and buy a bottle. Besides, I must
call on my friend Parkhurst, the apothecary.--You are a good girl,
Patience, and I'll marry you as soon as the plague ceases."

"I have something else to give you," rejoined Patience. "This little bag
contains a hazel-nut, from which I have picked the kernel, and filled
its place with quicksilver, stopping the hole with wax. Wear it round
your neck, and you will find it a certain preservative against the
pestilence."

"Who told you of this remedy?" asked Blaize, taking the bag.

"Your mother," returned Patience.

"I wonder I never heard of it," said the porter.

"She wouldn't mention it to you, because the doctor advised her not to
put such matters into your head," replied Patience. "But I couldn't help
indulging you. Heigho! I hope the plague will soon be over."

"It won't be over for six months," rejoined Blaize, shaking his head. "I
read in a little book, published in 1593, in Queen Elizabeth's reign,
and written by Simon Kelway, 'that when little children flock together,
and pretend that some of their number are dead, solemnizing the burial
in a mournful sort, it is a certain token that a great mortality is at
hand.' This I have myself seen more than once. Again, just before the
great sickness of 1625, the churchyard wall of St. Andrew's, Holborn,
fell down. I need not tell you that the same thing occurred after the
frost this winter."

"I heard of it," replied Patience: "but I did not know it was a bad
sign."

"It is a dreadful sign," returned Blaize, with a shudder "The thought of
it brings back my old symptoms. I must have a supper to guard against
infection--a slice of toasted bread, sprinkled with, vinegar, and
powdered with nutmeg."

And chattering thus, they proceeded to the kitchen.

Before supper could be served, Dr. Hodges made his appearance. He was
delighted to see the family assembled together again, and expressed a
hearty wish that they might never more be divided. He watched Amabel and
Leonard carefully, and seemed annoyed that the former rather shunned
than favoured the regards of the apprentice.

Leonard, too, looked disconcerted; and though he was in possession of
his mistress's promise, he did not like to reclaim it. During the whole
of the month, he had been constantly on the watch, and had scarcely
slept at night, so anxious was he to prevent the possibility of any
communication taking place between Rochester and his mistress. But, in
spite of all his caution, it was possible he might be deceived. And when
on this, their first meeting, she returned his anxious gaze with averted
looks, he felt all his jealous misgivings return.

Supper, meanwhile, proceeded. Doctor Hodges was in excellent spirits,
and drank a bottle of old sack with great relish. Overcome by the sight
of his wife and children, the grocer abandoned himself to his feelings.
As to his wife, she could scarcely contain herself, but wept and laughed
by turns--now embracing her husband, now her son, between whom she had
placed herself. Nor did she forget Doctor Hodges; and such was the
exuberance of her satisfaction, that when the repast was ended, she
arose, and, flinging her arms about his neck, termed him the preserver
of her son.

"If any one is entitled to that appellation it is his father," replied
Hodges, "and I may say, that in all my experience I have never witnessed
such generous self-devotion as Mr. Bloundel has exhibited towards his
son. You must now be satisfied, madam, that no person can so well judge
what is proper for the safety of his family as your husband."

"I never doubted it, sir," replied Mrs. Bloundel.

"I must apprise you, then, that he has conceived a plan by which he
trusts to secure you and his children and household from any future
attack," returned Hodges.

"I care not what it is, so it does not separate me from him," replied
Mrs. Bloundel.

"It does not," replied the grocer. "It will knit us more closely
together than we have yet been. I mean to shut up my house, having
previously stored it with provisions for a twelvemonth, and shall suffer
no member of my family to stir forth as long as the plague endures."

"I am ready to remain within doors, if it continues twenty years,"
replied his wife. "But how long do you think it _will_ last, doctor?"

"Till next December, I have no doubt," returned Hodges.

"So long?" exclaimed Amabel.

"Ay, so long," repeated the doctor. "It has scarcely begun now. Your
father is right to adopt these precautions. It is the only way to insure
the safety of his family."

"But----" cried Amabel.

"I am resolved," interrupted Bloundel, peremptorily. "Who ever leaves
the house--if but for a moment--never returns."

"And when do you close it, father?" asked Amabel.

"A week hence," replied the grocer; "as soon as I have laid in a
sufficient stock of provisions."

"And am I not to leave the house for a year?" cried Amabel, with a
dissatisfied look.

"Why should you wish to leave it?" asked her father, curiously.

"Ay, why?" repeated Leonard, in a low tone. "I shall be here."

Amabel seemed confused, and looked from her father to Leonard. The
former, however, did not notice her embarrassment, but observed to
Hodges--"I shall begin to victual the house to-morrow."

"Amabel," whispered Leonard, "you told me if I claimed your hand in a
month, you would yield it to me. I require the fulfilment of your
promise."

"Give me till to-morrow," she replied, distractedly.

"She has seen Rochester," muttered the apprentice, turning away.


II.

IN WHAT MANNER THE GROCER VICTUALLED HIS HOUSE.

Leonard Holt was wrong in his suspicions. Amabel had neither seen nor
heard from Rochester. But, if the truth must be told, he was never out
of her mind, and she found, to her cost, that the heart will not be
controlled. Convinced of her noble lover's perfidy, and aware she was
acting wrongfully in cherishing a passion for him, after the exposure of
his base designs towards herself, no reasoning of which she was capable
could banish him from her thoughts, or enable her to transfer her
affections to the apprentice.

This conflict of feeling produced its natural result. She became
thoughtful and dejected--was often in tears--had no appetite--and could
scarcely rouse herself sufficiently to undertake any sort of employment.
Her mother watched her with great anxiety, and feared--though she sought
to disguise it from herself--what was the real cause of her despondency.

Things were in this position at the end of the month, and it occasioned
no surprise to Mrs. Bloundel, though it afflicted her deeply, to find
that Amabel sedulously avoided the apprentice's regards on their first
meeting. When Doctor Hodges was gone, and the rest of the family had
retired, she remarked to her husband, "Before you shut up the house as
you propose, I should, wish one important matter settled."

The grocer inquired what she meant.

"I should wish to have Amabel married," was the answer.

"Married!" exclaimed Bloundel, in astonishment. "To whom?"

"To Leonard Holt."

Bloundel could scarcely repress his displeasure.

"It will be time enough to talk of that a year hence," he answered.

"I don't think so," returned his wife; "and now, since the proper time
for the disclosure of the secret has arrived, I must tell you that the
gallant who called himself Maurice Wyvil, and whom you so much dreaded,
was no other than the Earl of Rochester."

"Rochester!" echoed the grocer, while an angry flush stained his cheek;
"has that libertine dared to enter my house?"

"Ay, and more than once," replied Mrs. Bloundel.

"Indeed!" cried her husband, with difficulty controlling his
indignation. "When was he here?--tell me quickly."

His wife then proceeded to relate all that had occurred, and he listened
with profound attention to her recital. At its close, he arose and paced
the chamber for some time in great agitation.

At length he suddenly paused, and, regarding his wife with great
sternness, observed, in a severe tone, "You have done very wrong in
concealing this from me, Honora--very wrong."

"If I have erred, it was to spare you uneasiness," returned Mrs.
Bloundel, bursting into tears. "Doctor Hodges agreed with me that it was
better not to mention the subject while you had so many other anxieties
pressing upon you."

"I have a stout heart, and a firm reliance on the goodness of Heaven,
which will enable me to bear up against most evils," returned the
grocer. "But on this point I ought, under any circumstances, to have
been consulted. And I am greatly surprised that Doctor Hodges should
advise the contrary."

"He was influenced, like myself, by the kindliest feelings towards you,"
sobbed Mrs. Bloundel.

"Well, well, I will not reproach you further," returned the grocer,
somewhat moved by her tears. "I have no doubt you conceived you were
acting for the best. But I must caution you against such conduct for the
future." After a pause, he added, "Is it your opinion that our poor
deluded child still entertains any regard for this profligate nobleman?"

"I am sure she does," replied Mrs. Bloundel; "and it is from that
conviction that I so strongly urge the necessity of marrying her to
Leonard Holt."

"I will never compel her to do anything to endanger her future
happiness," returned the grocer. "She must not marry Leonard Holt
without loving him. It is better to risk an uncertain evil, than to rush
upon a certain one."

"Then I won't answer for the consequences," replied his wife.

"What!" cried Bloundel; "am I to understand you have no reliance on
Amabel? Has all our care been thrown away?"

"I do not distrust her," returned Mrs. Bloundel; "but consider whom she
has to deal with. She is beset by the handsomest and most fascinating
man of the day--by one understood to be practised in all the arts most
dangerous to our sex--and a nobleman to boot. Some allowance must be
made for her."

"I will make none," rejoined Bloundel, austerely. "She has been taught
to resist temptation in whatever guise it may present itself; and if the
principles I have endeavoured to implant within her breast had found
lodgment there, she _would_ have resisted it. I am deeply grieved to
find this is not the case, and that she must trust to others for
protection, when she ought to be able to defend herself."

The subject was not further discussed, and the grocer and his wife
shortly afterwards retired to rest.

On the following morning, Bloundel remarked to the apprentice as they
stood together in the shop, "Leonard, you are aware I am about to shut
up my house. Before doing so, I must make certain needful arrangements.
I will not disguise from you that I should prefer your remaining with
me, but at the same time I beg you distinctly to understand that I will
not detain you against your will. Your articles are within two months of
expiring; and, if you desire it, I will deliver them to you to-morrow,
and release you from the rest of your time."

"I do not desire it, sir," replied Leonard; "I will remain as long as I
can be serviceable to you."

"Take time for reflection," rejoined his master, kindly. "In all
probability, it will be a long confinement, and you may repent, when too
late, having subjected yourself to it."

"Last month's experience has taught me what I have to expect," remarked
Leonard, with a smile. "My mind is made up, I will stay with you."

"I am glad of it," returned Bloundel, "and now I have something further
to say to you. My wife has acquainted me with the daring attempt of the
Earl of Rochester to carry off Amabel."

"Has my mistress, also, told you of my attachment to your daughter?"
demanded Leonard, trembling, in spite of his efforts to maintain a show
of calmness.

Bloundel nodded an affirmative.

"And of Amabel's promise to bestow her hand upon me, if I claimed it at
the month's end?" continued the apprentice.

"No!" replied the grocer, a good deal surprised--"I heard of no such
promise. Nor was I aware the matter had gone so far. But have you
claimed it?"

"I have," replied Leonard; "but she declined giving an answer till
to-day."

"We will have it, then, at once," cried Bloundel "Come with me to her."

So saying, he led the way to the inner room, where they found Amabel and
her mother. At the sight of Leonard, the former instantly cast down her
eyes.

"Amabel," said her father, in a tone of greater severity than he had
ever before used towards her, "all that has passed is known to me. I
shall take another and more fitting opportunity to speak to you on your
ill-advised conduct. I am come for a different purpose. You have given
Leonard Holt a promise (I need not tell you of what nature), and he
claims its fulfilment."

"If he insists upon my compliance," replied Amabel, in a tremulous
voice, "I must obey. But it will make me wretched."

"Then I at once release you," replied Leonard. "I value your happiness
far more than my own."

"You deserve better treatment, Leonard," said Bloundel; "and I am sorry
my daughter cannot discern what is for her good. Let us hope that time
will work a change in your favour."

"No," replied the apprentice, bitterly; "I will no longer delude myself
with any such vain expectation."

"Amabel," observed the grocer, "as your father--as your wellwisher--I
should desire to see you wedded to Leonard. But I have told your mother,
and now tell you, that I will not control your inclinations, and will
only attempt to direct you so far as I think likely to be conducive to
your happiness. On another point, I must assume a very different tone.
You can no longer plead ignorance of the designs of the depraved person
who besets you. You may not be able to forget him--but you can avoid
him. If you see him alone again--if but for a moment--I cast you off for
ever. Yes, for ever," he repeated, with stern emphasis.

"I will never voluntarily see him again," replied Amabel, tremblingly.

"You have heard my determination," rejoined her father. "Do you still
adhere to your resolution of remaining with me, Leonard?" he added,
turning to the apprentice. "If what has just passed makes any alteration
in your wishes, state so, frankly."

"I will stay," replied Leonard.

"There will be one advantage, which I did not foresee, in closing my
house," remarked the grocer aside to the apprentice. "It will
effectually keep away this libertine earl."

"Perhaps so," replied the other. "But I have more faith in my own
vigilance than in bolts and bars."

Bloundel and Leonard then returned to the shop, where the former
immediately began to make preparations for storing his house; and in the
prosecution of his scheme he was greatly aided by the apprentice.

The grocer's dwelling, as has been stated, was large and commodious. It
was three stories high; and beneath the ground-floor there were kitchens
and extensive cellars. Many of the rooms were spacious, and had
curiously carved fireplaces, walls pannelled with fine brown oak, large
presses, and cupboards.

In the yard, at the back of the house, there was a pump, from which
excellent water was obtained. There were likewise three large cisterns,
supplied from the New River. Not satisfied with this, and anxious to
obtain water in which no infected body could have lain, or clothes have
been washed, Bloundel had a large tank placed within the cellar, and
connecting it by pipes with the pump, he contrived an ingenious machine,
by which he could work the latter from within the house--thus making
sure of a constant supply of water direct from the spring.

He next addressed himself to the front of the house, where he fixed a
pulley, with a rope and hook attached to it, to the beam above one of
the smaller bay windows on the second story. By this means, he could let
down a basket or any other article into the street, or draw up whatever
he desired; and as he proposed using this outlet as the sole means of
communication with the external world when his house was closed, he had
a wooden shutter made in the form of a trap-door, which he could open
and shut at pleasure.

Here it was his intention to station himself at certain hours of the
day, and whenever he held any communication below, to flash off a
pistol, so that the smoke of the powder might drive back the air, and
purify any vapour that found entrance of its noxious particles.

He laid down to himself a number of regulations, which will be more
easily shown and more clearly understood, on arriving at the period when
his plans came to be in full operation. To give an instance, however--if
a letter should be conveyed to him by means of the pulley, he proposed
to steep it in a solution of vinegar and sulphur; and when dried and
otherwise fumigated, to read it at a distance by the help of strong
glasses.

In regard to provisions, after a careful calculation, he bought upwards
of three thousand pounds' weight of hard sea-biscuits, similar to those
now termed captain's biscuits, and had them stowed away in hogsheads. He
next ordered twenty huge casks of the finest flour, which he had packed
up with the greatest care, as if for a voyage to Barbadoes or Jamaica.
As these were brought in through the yard an accident had well-nigh
occurred which might have proved fatal to him. While superintending the
labours of Leonard and Blaize, who were rolling the casks into the
house--having stowed away as many as he conveniently could in the upper
part of the premises--he descended to the cellar, and, opening a door at
the foot of a flight of steps leading from the yard, called to them to
lower the remaining barrels with ropes below. In the hurry, Blaize
rolled a cask towards the open door, and in another instant it would
have fallen upon the grocer, and perhaps have crushed him, but for the
interposition of Leonard. Bloundel made no remark at the time; but he
never forgot the service rendered him by the apprentice.

To bake the bread required an oven, and he accordingly built one in the
garret, laying in a large stock of wood for fuel. Neither did he neglect
to provide himself with two casks of meal.

But the most important consideration was butcher's meat; and for this
purpose he went to Rotherhithe, where the plague had not yet appeared,
and agreed with a butcher to kill him four fat bullocks, and pickle and
barrel them as if for sea stores. He likewise directed the man to
provide six large barrels of pickled pork, on the same understanding.
These were landed at Queenhithe, and brought up to Wood-street, so that
they passed for newly-landed grocery.

Hams and bacon forming part of his own trade, he wrote to certain
farmers with whom he was in the habit of dealing, to send him up an
unlimited supply of flitches and gammons; and his orders being promptly
and abundantly answered, he soon found he had more bacon than he could
possibly consume. He likewise laid in a good store of tongues, hung
beet, and other dried meats.

As to wine, he already had a tolerable stock; but he increased it by
half a hogshead of the best canary he could procure; two casks of
malmsey, each containing twelve gallons; a quarter-cask of Malaga sack;
a runlet of muscadine; two small runlets of aqua vitae; twenty gallons
of aniseed water; and two eight-gallon runlets of brandy. To this he
added six hogsheads of strongly-hopped Kent ale, calculated for keeping,
which he placed in a cool cellar, together with three hogsheads of beer,
for immediate use. Furthermore, he procured a variety of distilled
waters for medicinal purposes, amongst which he included a couple of
dozen of the then fashionable and costly preparation, denominated
plague-water.

As, notwithstanding all his precautions, it was not impossible that some
of his household might be attacked by the distemper, he took care to
provide proper remedies, and, to Blaize's infinite delight, furnished
himself with mithridates, Venice treacle, diascorium, the pill rufus
(oh! how the porter longed to have the key of the medicine chest!),
London treacle, turpentine, and other matters. He likewise collected a
number of herbs and simples; as Virginian snakeweed, contrajerva,
pestilence-wort, angelica, elecampane, zedoary, tormentil, valerian,
lovage, devils-bit, dittany, master-wort, rue, sage, ivy-berries, and
walnuts; together with bole ammoniac, terra sigillata, bezoar-water, oil
of sulphur, oil of vitriol, and other compounds. His store of remedies
was completed by a tun of the best white-wine vinegar, and a dozen jars
of salad-oil.

Regulating his supplies by the provisions he had laid in, he purchased a
sufficient stock of coals and fagots to last him during the whole period
of his confinement; and he added a small barrel of gunpowder, and a like
quantity of sulphur for fumigation.

His eatables would not have been complete without cheese; and he
therefore ordered about six hundredweight from Derbyshire, Wiltshire,
and Leicestershire, besides a couple of large old cheeses from
Rostherne, in Cheshire--even then noted for the best dairies in the
whole county. Several tubs of salted butter were sent him out of
Berkshire, and a few pots, from Suffolk.

It being indispensable, considering the long period he meant to close
his house, to provide himself and his family with every necessary, he
procured a sufficient stock of wearing apparel, hose, shoes and boots.
Spice, dried fruit, and other grocery articles, were not required,
because he already possessed them. Candles also formed an article of his
trade, and lamp-oil; but he was recommended by Doctor Hodges, from a
fear of the scurvy, to provide a plentiful supply of lemon and lime
juice.

To guard against accident, he also doubly stocked his house with glass,
earthenware, and every article liable to breakage. He destroyed all
vermin, such as rats and mice, by which the house was infested; and the
only live creatures he would suffer to be kept were a few poultry. He
had a small hutch constructed near the street-door, to be used by the
watchman he meant to employ; and he had the garrets fitted up with beds
to form an hospital, if any part of the family should be seized with the
distemper, so that the sick might be sequestered from the sound.

       *       *       *       *       *


III.

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

Patience, it may be remembered, had promised Blaize to give him her
earnings to enable him to procure a fresh supply of medicine, and about
a week after he had received the trifling amount (for he had been so
constantly employed by the grocer that he had no opportunity of getting
out before), he sallied forth to visit a neighbouring apothecary, named
Parkhurst, from whom he had been in the habit of purchasing drugs, and
who occupied a small shop not far from the grocer's, on the opposite
side of the street. Parkhurst appeared overjoyed to see him, and,
without giving him time to prefer his own request, inquired after his
master's family--whether they were all well, especially fair Mistress
Amabel--and, further, what was the meaning of the large supplies of
provision which he saw daily conveyed to the premises? Blaize shook his
head at the latter question, and for some time refused to answer it. But
being closely pressed by Parkhurst, he admitted that his master was
about to shut up his house.

"Shut up his house!" exclaimed Parkhurst. "I never heard of such a
preposterous idea. If he does so, not one of you will come out alive.
But I should hope that he will be dissuaded from his rash design."

"Dissuaded!" echoed Blaize. "You don't know my master. He's as obstinate
as a mule when he takes a thing into his head. Nothing will turn him.
Besides, Doctor Hodges sanctions and even recommends the plan."

"I have no opinion of Doctor Hodges," sneered the apothecary. "He is not
fit to hold a candle before a learned friend of mine, a physician, who
is now in that room. The person I speak of thoroughly understands the
pestilence, and never fails to cure every case that comes before him. No
shutting up houses with him. He is in possession of an infallible
remedy."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Blaize, pricking up his ears. "What is his name?"

"His name!" cried Parkhurst, with a puzzled look. "How strange it should
slip my memory! Ah, now I recollect. It is Doctor Calixtus Bottesham."

"A singular name, truly," remarked Blaize; "but it sounds like that of a
clever man."

"Doctor Calixtus Bottesham is a wonderful man," returned the apothecary.
"I have never met with his like. I would trumpet forth his merits
through the whole city, but that it would ruin my trade. The plague is
our harvest, as my friend Chowles, the coffin-maker, says, and it will
not do to stop it--ha! ha!"

"It is too serious a subject to laugh at," returned Blaize, gravely.
"But are the doctor's fees exorbitant?"

"To the last degree," replied Parkhurst. "I am afraid to state how much
he asks."

"I fear I shall not be able to consult him, then," said Blaize, turning
over the coin in his pocket; "and yet I should greatly like to do so."

"Have no fear on that score," returned the apothecary. "I have been able
to render him an important service, and he will do anything for me. He
shall give you his advice gratis."

"Thank you! thank you!" cried Blaize, transported with delight.

"Wait here a moment, and I will ascertain whether he will see you,"
replied Parkhurst.

So saying, he quitted the porter, who amused himself during his absence
by studying the labels affixed to the jars and bottles on the shelves.
He had much ado to restrain himself from opening some of them, and
tasting their contents.

Full a quarter of an hour elapsed before the apothecary appeared.

"I am sorry to have detained you so long," he said; "but I had more
difficulty with the doctor than I expected, and for some time he refused
to see you on any terms, because he has a violent antipathy to Doctor
Hodges, whom he regards as a mere pretender, and whose patient he
conceives you to be."

"I am not Doctor Hodges' patient," returned Blaize; "and I regard him as
a pretender myself."

"That opinion will recommend you to Doctor Bottesham," replied
Parkhurst; "and since I have smoothed the way for you, you will find him
very affable and condescending. He has often heard me speak of your
master; and if it were not for his dislike of Doctor Hodges, whom he
might accidentally encounter, he would call upon him."

"I wish I could get my master to employ him instead of the other," said
Blaize.

"I wish so too," cried Parkhurst, eagerly. "Do you think it could be
managed?"

"I fear not," returned Blaize.

"There would be no harm in making the trial," replied Parkhurst. "But
you shall now see the learned gentleman. I ought to apprise you that he
has two friends with him--one a young gallant, named Hawkswood, whom he
has recently cured of the distemper, and who is so much attached to him
that he never leaves him; the other, a doctor, like himself, named
Martin Furbisher, who always accompanies him in his visits to his
patients, and prepares his mixtures for him. You must not be surprised
at their appearance. And now come with me."

With this, he led the way into a small room at the back of the shop,
where three personages were seated at the table, with a flask of wine
and glasses before them. Blaize detected Doctor Bottesham at a glance.
He was an ancient-looking man, clad in a suit of rusty black, over which
was thrown a velvet robe, very much soiled and faded, but originally
trimmed with fur, and lined with yellow silk. His powers of vision
appeared to be feeble, for he wore a large green shade over his eyes,
and a pair of spectacles of the same colour. A venerable white beard
descended almost to his waist. His head was protected by a long flowing
grey wig, over which he wore a black velvet cap. His shoulders were high
and round, his back bent, and he evidently required support when he
moved, as a crutch-headed staff was reared against his chair. On his
left was a young, handsome, and richly-attired gallant, answering to the
apothecary's description of Hawkswood; and on the right sat a stout
personage precisely habited like himself, except that he wore a
broad-leaved hat, which completely overshadowed his features.
Notwithstanding this attempt at concealment, it was easy to perceive
that Doctor Furbisher's face was covered with scars, that he had a
rubicund nose, studded with carbuncles, and a black patch over his left
eye.

"Is this the young man who desires to consult me?" asked Doctor Calixtus
Bottesham, in the cracked and quavering voice of old age, of Parkhurst.

"It is," replied the apothecary, respectfully. "Go forward," he added to
Blaize, "and speak for yourself."

"What ails you?" pursued Bottesham, gazing at him through his
spectacles. "You look strong and hearty."

"So I am, learned sir," replied Blaize, bowing to the ground; "but
understanding from Mr. Parkhurst that you have an infallible remedy
against the plague, I would gladly procure it from you, as, if I should
be attacked, I may not have an opportunity of consulting you."

"Why not?" demanded Bottesham. "I will come to you if you send for me."

"Because," replied Blaize, after a moment's hesitation, "my master is
about to shut up his house, and no one will be allowed to go forth, or
to enter it, till the pestilence is at an end."

"Your master must be mad to think of such a thing," rejoined Bottesham.
"What say you, brother Furbisher?--is that the way to keep off the
plague?"

"Gallipots of Galen! no," returned the other; "it is rather the way to
invite its assaults."

"When does your master talk of putting this fatal design--for fatal it
will be to him and all his household--into execution?" demanded
Bottesham.

"Very shortly, I believe," replied Blaize. "He meant to begin on the
first of June, but as the pestilence is less violent than it was, Doctor
Hodges has induced him to defer his purpose for a few days."

"Doctor Hodges!" exclaimed Bottesham, contemptuously. "It was an
unfortunate day for your master when he admitted that sack-drinking
impostor into his house."

"I have no great opinion of his skill," replied Blaize, "but,
nevertheless, it must be admitted that he cured Master Stephen in a
wonderful manner."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Bottesham, "that was mere accident. I heard the
particulars of the case from Parkhurst, and am satisfied the youth would
have recovered without his aid. But what a barbarian Mr. Bloundel must
be to think of imprisoning his family in this way!"

"He certainly does not consult my inclinations in the matter," returned
Blaize.

"Nor those of his wife and daughter, I should imagine," continued
Bottesham. "How do _they_ like it?"

"I cannot exactly say," answered Blaize. "What a dreadful thing it would
be if I should be attacked by the plague, and no assistance could be
procured!"

"It would be still more dreadful if so angelic a creature as Bloundel's
daughter is represented to be--for I have never seen her--should be so
seized," observed Bottesham. "I feel so much interested about her that I
would do anything to preserve her from the fate with which she is
menaced."

"Were it not inconsistent with your years, learned sir, I might suspect
you of a tenderer feeling towards her," observed Blaize, archly. "But,
in good sooth, her charms are so extraordinary, that I should not be
surprised at any effect they might produce."

"They would produce no effect on me," replied Bottesham. "I am long past
such feelings. But in regard to yourself. You say you are afraid of the
plague. I will give you an electuary to drive away the panic;" and he
produced a small jar, and handed it to the porter. "It is composed of
conserve of roses, gillyflowers, borage, candied citron, powder of
_laetificans Galeni_, Roman zedoary, doronicum, and saffron. You must
take about the quantity of a large nutmeg, morning and evening."

"You make me for ever your debtor, learned sir," rejoined Blaize. "What
a charming mixture!"

"I will also add my remedy," said Furbisher. "It is a powder compounded
of crabs' eyes, burnt hartshorn, the black tops of crabs' claws, the
bone from a stag's heart, unicorn's horn, and salt of vipers. You must
take one or two drams--not more--in a glass of hot posset-drink, when
you go to bed, and swallow another draught of the same potion to wash it
down."

"I will carefully observe your directions," replied Blaize, thankfully
receiving the powder.

"Of all things," said Bottesham, claiming the porter's attention by
tapping him on the head with his cane, "take care never to be without
vinegar. It is the grand specific, not merely against the plague, but
against all disorders. It is food and physic, meat and medicine, drink
and julep, cordial and antidote. If you formerly took it as a sauce, now
take it as a remedy. To the sound it is a preservative from sickness, to
the sick, a restorative to health. It is like the sword which is worn
not merely for ornament, but for defence. Vinegar is my remedy against
the plague. It is a simple remedy, but an effectual one. I have cured a
thousand patients with it, and hope to cure a thousand more. Take
vinegar with all you eat, and flavour all you drink with it. Has the
plague taken away your appetite, vinegar will renew it. Is your throat
ulcerated, use vinegar as a gargle. Are you disturbed with phlegmatic
humours, vinegar will remove them. Is your brain laden with vapours,
throw vinegar on a hot shovel, and inhale its fumes, and you will obtain
instantaneous relief. Have you the headache, wet a napkin in vinegar,
and apply it to your temples, and the pain will cease. In short, there
is no ailment that vinegar will not cure. It is the grand panacea; and
may be termed the elixir of long life."

"I wonder its virtues have not been found out before," observed Blaize,
innocently.

"It is surprising how slow men are in discovering the most obvious
truths," replied Bottesham. "But take my advice, and never be without
it."

"I never will," returned Blaize. "Heaven be praised, my master has just
ordered in three tuns. I'll tap one of them directly."

"That idea of the vinegar remedy is borrowed from Kemp's late treatise
on the pestilence and its cure," muttered Furbisher. "Before you enter
upon the new system, young man," he added aloud to Blaize, "let me
recommend you to fortify your stomach with a glass of canary."

And pouring out a bumper, he handed it to the porter, who swallowed it
at a draught.

"And now," said Bottesham, "to return to this mad scheme of your
master's--is there no way of preventing it?"

"I am aware of none," replied Blaize.

"Bolts and bars!" cried Furbisher, "something must be done for the fair
Amabel. We owe it to society not to permit so lovely a creature to be
thus immured. What say you, Hawkswood?" he added to the gallant by his
side, who had not hitherto spoken.

"It would be unpardonable to permit it--quite unpardonable," replied
this person.

"Might not some plan be devised to remove her for a short time, and
frighten him out of his project?" said Bottesham. "I would willingly
assist in such a scheme. I pledge you in a bumper, young man. You appear
a trusty servant."

"I am so accounted, learned sir," replied Blaize, upon whose brain the
wine thus plentifully bestowed began to operate--"and I may add, justly
so."

"You really will be doing your master a service if you can prevent him
from committing this folly," rejoined Bottesham.

"Let us have a bottle of burnt malmsey, with a few bruised raisins in
it, Mr. Parkhurst. This poor young man requires support. Be seated,
friend."

With some hesitation, Blaize complied, and while the apothecary went in
search of the wine, he observed to Bottesham, "I would gladly comply
with your suggestion, learned sir, if I saw any means of doing so."

"Could you not pretend to have the plague?" said Bottesham. "I could
then attend you."

"I should be afraid of playing such a trick as that," replied Blaize.
"Besides, I do not see what purpose it would answer."

"It would enable me to get into the house," returned Bottesham, "and
then I might take measures for Amabel's deliverance."

"If you merely wish to get into the house," replied Blaize, "that can be
easily managed. I will admit you this evening."

"Without your master's knowledge?" asked Bottesham, eagerly.

"Of course," returned Blaize.

"But he has an apprentice?" said the doctor.

"Oh! you mean Leonard Holt," replied Blaize. "Yes, we must take care he
doesn't see you. If you come about nine o'clock, he will be engaged with
my master in putting away the things in the shop."

"I will be punctual," replied Bottesham, "and will bring Doctor
Furbisher with me. We will only stay a few minutes. But here comes the
burnt malmsey. Fill the young man's glass, Parkhurst. I will insure you
against the plague, if you will follow my advice."

"But will you insure me against my master's displeasure, if he finds me
out?" said Blaize.

"I will provide you with a new one," returned Bottesham. "You shall
serve me if you wish to change your place."

"That would answer my purpose exactly," thought Blaize. "I need never be
afraid of the plague if I live with him. I will turn over your proposal,
learned sir," he added, aloud.

After priming him with another bumper of malmsey, Blaise's new friends
suffered him to depart. On returning home, he proceeded to his own room,
and feeling unusually drowsy, he threw himself on the bed, and almost
instantly dropped asleep. When he awoke, the fumes of the liquor had, in
a great degree, evaporated, and he recalled, with considerable
self-reproach, the promise he had given, and would gladly have recalled
it, if it had been possible. But it was now not far from the appointed
hour, and he momentarily expected the arrival of the two doctors. The
only thing that consoled him was the store of medicine he had obtained,
and, locking it up in his cupboard, he descended to the kitchen.
Fortunately, his mother was from home, so that he ran no risk from her;
and, finding Patience alone, after some hesitation, he let her into the
secret of his anticipated visitors. She was greatly surprised, and
expressed much uneasiness lest they should be discovered; as, if they
were so, it would be sure to bring them both into trouble.

"What can they want with Mistress Amabel?" she cried. "I should not
wonder if Doctor Calixtus Bottesham, as you call him, turns out a lover
in disguise."

"A lover!" exclaimed Blaize. "Your silly head is always running upon
lovers. He's an old man--old enough to be your grandfather, with a long
white beard, reaching to his waist. He a lover! Mr. Bloundel is much
more like one."

"For all that, it looks suspicious," returned Patience; "and I shall
have my eyes about me on their arrival."

Shortly after this, Blaize crept cautiously up to the back yard, and,
opening the door, found, as he expected, Bottesham and his companion.
Motioning them to follow him, he led the way to the kitchen, where they
arrived without observation. Patience eyed the new-comers narrowly, and
felt almost certain, from their appearance and manner, that her
suspicions were correct. All doubts were removed when Bottesham,
slipping a purse into her hand, entreated her, on some plea or other, to
induce Amabel to come into the kitchen. At first she hesitated; but
having a tender heart, inclining her to assist rather than oppose the
course of any love-affair, her scruples were soon overcome. Accordingly
she hurried upstairs, and chancing to meet with her young mistress, who
was about to retire to her own chamber, entreated her to come down with
her for a moment in the kitchen. Thinking it some unimportant matter,
but yet wondering why Patience should appear so urgent, Amabel complied.
She was still more perplexed when she saw the two strangers, and would
have instantly retired if Bottesham had not detained her.

"You will pardon the liberty I have taken in sending for you," he said,
"when I explain that I have done so to offer you counsel."

"I am as much at a loss to understand what counsel you can have to
offer, sir, as to guess why you are here," she replied.

"Amabel," returned Bottesham, in a low tone, but altering his voice, and
slightly raising his spectacles so as to disclose his features; "it is
I--Maurice Wyvil."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, in the utmost astonishment.

"I told you we should meet again," he rejoined; "and I have kept my
word."

"Think not to deceive me, my lord," she returned, controlling her
emotion by a powerful effort. "I am aware you are not Maurice Wyvil, but
the Earl of Rochester. Your love is as false as your character. Mistress
Mallet is the real object of your regards. You see I am acquainted with
your perfidy."

"Amabel, you are deceived," replied Rochester. "On my soul, you are.
When I have an opportunity of explaining myself more fully, I will prove
to you that I was induced by the king, for an especial purpose, to pay
feigned addresses to the lady you have named. But I never loved her. You
alone are the possessor of my heart, and shall be the sharer of my
title. You shall be Countess of Rochester."

"Could I believe you?" she cried.

"You _may_ believe me," he answered. "Do not blight my hopes and your
own happiness a second time. Your father is about to shut up his house
for a twelvemonth, if the plague lasts so long. This done, we shall meet
no more, for access to you will be impossible. Do not hesitate, or you
will for ever rue your irresolution."

"I know not what to do," cried Amabel, distractedly.

"Then I will decide for you," replied the earl, grasping her hand.
"Come!"

While this was passing, Furbisher, or rather, as will be surmised,
Pillichody, had taken Blaize aside, and engaged his attention by
dilating upon the efficacy of a roasted onion filled with treacle in the
expulsion of the plague. Patience stationed herself near the door, not
with a view of interfering with the lovers, but rather of assisting
them; and at the very moment that the earl seized his mistress's hand,
and would have drawn her forward, she ran towards them, and hastily
whispered, "Leonard Holt is coming downstairs."

"Ah! I am lost!" cried Amabel.

"Fear nothing," said the earl. "Keep near me, and I will soon dispose of
him."

As he spoke, the apprentice entered the kitchen, and, greatly surprised
by the appearance of the strangers, angrily demanded from Blaize who
they were.

"They are two doctors come to give me advice respecting the plague,"
stammered the porter.

"How did they get into the house?" inquired Leonard.

"I let them in through the back door," replied Blaize.

"Then let them out by the same way," rejoined the apprentice. "May I ask
what you are doing here?" he added, to Amabel.

"What is that to you, fellow?" cried Rochester, in his assumed voice.

"Much, as you shall find, my lord," replied the apprentice; "for, in
spite of your disguise, I know you. Quit the house instantly with your
companion, or I will give the alarm, and Amabel well knows what the
consequences will be."

"You must go, my lord," she replied.

"I will not stir unless you accompany me," said Rochester.

"Then I have no alternative," rejoined Leonard. "You know your father's
determination--I would willingly spare you, Amabel."

"Oh, goodness! what _will_ become of us?" cried Patience--"if there
isn't Mr. Bloundel coming downstairs."

"Amabel," said Leonard, sternly, "the next moment decides your fate. If
the earl departs, I will keep your secret."

"You hear that, my lord," she cried; "I command you to leave me."

And disengaging herself from him, and hastily passing her father, who at
that moment entered the kitchen, she rushed upstairs.

On hearing the alarm of the grocer's approach, Pillichody took refuge in
a cupboard, the door of which stood invitingly open, so that Bloundel
only perceived the earl.

"What is the matter?" he cried, gazing around him. "Whom have we here?"

"It is a quack doctor, whom Blaize has been consulting about the
plague," returned Leonard.

"See him instantly out of the house," rejoined the grocer, angrily, "and
take care he never enters it again. I will have no such charlatans
here."

Leonard motioned Rochester to follow him, and the latter reluctantly
obeyed.

As soon as Bloundel had retired, Leonard, who had meanwhile provided
himself with his cudgel, descended to the kitchen, where he dragged
Pillichody from his hiding-place, and conducted him to the back door.
But he did not suffer him to depart without belabouring him soundly.
Locking the door, he then went in search of Blaize, and administered a
similar chastisement to him.


IV.

THE TWO WATCHMEN.

On the day following the events last related, as Leonard Holt was
standing at the door of the shop,--his master having just been called
out by some important business,--a man in the dress of a watchman, with
a halberd in his hand, approached him, and inquired if he was Mr.
Bloundel's apprentice.

Before returning an answer, Leonard looked hard at the newcomer, and
thought he had never beheld so ill-favoured a person before. Every
feature in his face was distorted. His mouth was twisted on one side,
his nose on the other, while his right eyebrow was elevated more than an
inch above the left; added to which he squinted intolerably, had a long
fell of straight sandy hair, a sandy beard and moustache, and a
complexion of the colour of brickdust.

"An ugly dog," muttered Leonard to himself, as he finished his scrutiny;
"what can he want with me? Suppose I should be Mr. Bloundel's
apprentice," he added, aloud, "what then, friend?"

"Your master has a beautiful daughter, has he not?" asked the
ill-favoured watchman.

"I answer no idle questions," rejoined Leonard, coldly.

"As you please," returned the other, in an offended tone. "A plan to
carry her off has accidentally come to my knowledge. But, since
incivility is all I am likely to get for my pains in coming to acquaint
you with it, e'en find it out yourself."

"Hold!" cried the apprentice, detaining him; "I meant no offence. Step
indoors for a moment. We can converse there more freely."

The watchman, who, notwithstanding his ill-looks, appeared to be a
good-natured fellow, was easily appeased. Following the apprentice into
the shop, on the promise of a handsome reward, he instantly commenced
his relation.

"Last night," he said, "I was keeping watch at the door of Mr. Brackley,
a saddler in Aldermanbury, whose house having been attacked by the
pestilence is now shut up, when I observed two persons, rather
singularly attired, pass me. Both were dressed like old men, but neither
their gait nor tone of voice corresponded with their garb."

"It must have been the Earl of Rochester and his companion," remarked
Leonard.

"You are right," replied the other; "for I afterwards heard one of them
addressed by that title. But to proceed. I was so much struck by the
strangeness of their appearance, that I left my post for a few minutes,
and followed them. They halted beneath a gateway, and, as they conversed
together very earnestly, and in a loud tone, I could distinctly hear
what they said. One of them, the stoutest of the two, complained
bitterly of the indignities he had received from Mr. Bloundel's
apprentice (meaning you, of course), averring that nothing but his
devotion to his companion had induced him to submit to them; and
affirming, with many tremendous oaths, that he would certainly cut the
young man's throat the very first opportunity."

"He shall not want it then," replied Leonard contemptuously; "neither
shall he lack a second application of my cudgel when we meet. But what
of his companion? What did he say?"

"He laughed heartily at the other's complaints," returned the watchman,
"and told him to make himself easy, for he should soon have his revenge.
'To-morrow night,' he said, 'we will carry off Amabel, in spite of the
apprentice or her father; and, as I am equally indebted with yourself to
the latter, we will pay off old scores with him.'"

"How do they intend to effect their purpose?" demanded Leonard.

"That I cannot precisely tell," replied the watchman. "All I could hear
was, that they meant to enter the house by the back yard about midnight.
And now, if you will make it worth my while, I will help you to catch
them in their own trap."

"Hum!" said Leonard. "What is your name?"

"Gregory Swindlehurst," replied the other.

"To help me, you must keep watch with me to-night," rejoined Leonard.
"Can you do so?"

"I see nothing to hinder me, provided I am paid for my trouble," replied
Gregory. "I will find some one to take my place at Mr. Brackley's. At
what hour shall I come?"

"Soon after ten," said Leonard. "Be at the shop-door, and I will let you
in."

"Count upon me," rejoined Gregory, a smile of satisfaction illumining
his ill-favoured countenance. "Shall I bring a comrade with me? I know a
trusty fellow who would like the job. If Lord Rochester should have his
companions with him, assistance will be required."

"True," replied Leonard. "Is your comrade a watchman, like yourself?"

"He is an old soldier, who has been lately employed to keep guard over
infected houses," replied Gregory. "We must take care his lordship does
not overreach us."

"If he gets into the house without my knowledge, I will forgive him,"
replied the apprentice.

"He won't get into it without mine," muttered Gregory, significantly.
"But do you not mean to warn Mistress Amabel of her danger?"

"I shall consider of it," replied the apprentice.

At this moment Mr. Bloundel entered the shop, and Leonard, feigning to
supply his companion with a small packet of grocery, desired him, in a
low tone, to be punctual to his appointment, and dismissed him. In
justice to the apprentice, it must be stated that he had no wish for
concealment, but was most anxious to acquaint his master with the
information he had just obtained, and was only deterred from doing so by
a dread of the consequences it might produce to Amabel.

The evening passed off much as usual. The family assembled at prayer;
and. Blaize, whose shoulders still ached with the chastisement he had
received, eyed the apprentice with sullen and revengeful looks.
Patience, too, was equally angry, and her indignation was evinced in a
manner so droll, that at another season it would have drawn a smile from
Leonard.

Supper over, Amabel left the room. Leonard followed her, and overtook
her on the landing of the stairs.

"Amabel," he said, "I have received certain intelligence that the Earl
of Rochester will make another attempt to enter the house, and carry you
off to-night."

"Oh! when will he cease from persecuting me?" she cried.

"When you cease to encourage him," replied the apprentice, bitterly.

"I do _not_ encourage him, Leonard," she rejoined, "and to prove that I
do not, I will act in any way you think proper tonight."

"If I could trust you," said Leonard, you might be of the greatest
service in convincing the earl that his efforts are fruitless."

"You _may_ trust me," she rejoined.

"Well, then," returned Leonard, "when the family have retired to rest,
come downstairs, and I will tell you what to do."

Hastily promising compliance, Amabel disappeared; and Leonard ran down
the stairs, at the foot of which he encountered Mrs. Bloundel.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing--nothing," replied the apprentice, evasively.

"That-will not serve my turn," she rejoined. "Something, I am certain,
troubles you, though you do not choose to confess it. Heaven grant your
anxiety is not occasioned by aught relating to that wicked Earl of
Rochester! I cannot sleep in my bed for thinking of him. I noticed that
you followed Amabel out of the room. I hope you do not suspect
anything."

"Do not question me further, madam, I entreat," returned the apprentice.
"Whatever I may suspect, I have taken all needful precautions. Rest
easy, and sleep soundly, if you can. All will go well."

"I shall never rest easy, Leonard," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel, "till you
are wedded to my daughter. Then, indeed, I shall feel happy. My poor
child, I am sure, is fully aware how indiscreet her conduct has been;
and when this noble libertine desists from annoying her--or rather, when
he is effectually shut out--we may hope for a return of her regard for
you."

"It is a vain hope, madam," replied Leonard; "there will be no such
return. I neither expect it nor desire it."

"Have you ceased to love her?" asked Mrs. Bloundel, in surprise.

"Ceased to love her!" echoed Leonard, fiercely. "Would I had done
so!--would I _could_ do so! I love her too well--too well."

And repeating the words to himself with great bitterness, he hurried
away.

"His passion has disturbed his brain," sighed Mrs. Bloundel, as she
proceeded to her chamber. "I must try to reason him into calmness
to-morrow."

Half an hour after this, the grocer retired for the night; and Leonard,
who had gone to his own room, cautiously opened the door, and repaired
to the shop. On the way he met Amabel. She looked pale as death, and
trembled so violently, that she could scarcely support herself.

"I hope you do not mean to use any violence towards the earl, Leonard?"
she said in a supplicating voice.

"He will never repeat his visit," rejoined the apprentice, gloomily.

"Your looks terrify me," cried Amabel, gazing with great uneasiness at
his stern and determined countenance. "I will remain by you. He will
depart at my bidding."

"Did he depart at your bidding before?" demanded Leonard, sarcastically.

"He did not, I grant," she replied, more supplicatingly than before.
"But do not harm him--for mercy's sake, do not--take my life sooner. I
alone have offended you."

The apprentice made no reply, but, unlocking a box, took out a brace of
large horse-pistols and a sword, and thrust them into his girdle.

"You do not mean to use those murderous weapons?" cried Amabel.

"It depends on circumstances," replied Leonard. "Force must be met by
force."

"Nay, then," she rejoined, "the affair assumes too serious an aspect to
be trifled with. I will instantly alarm my father."

"Do so," retorted Leonard, "and he will cast you off for ever."

"Better that, than be the cause of bloodshed," she returned. "But is
there nothing I can do to prevent this fatal result?"

"Yes," replied Leonard. "Make your lover understand he is unwelcome to
you. Dismiss him for ever. On that condition, he shall depart unharmed
and freely."

"I will do so," she rejoined.

Nothing more was then said. Amabel seated herself and kept her eyes
fixed on Leonard, who, avoiding her regards, stationed himself near the
door.

By-and-by a slight tap was heard without, and the apprentice cautiously
admitted Gregory Swindlehurst and his comrade. The latter was habited
like the other watchman, in a blue night-rail, and was armed with a
halberd. He appeared much stouter, much older, and, so far as could be
discovered of his features--for a large handkerchief muffled his
face--much uglier (if that were possible) than his companion. He
answered to the name of Bernard Boutefeu. They had no sooner entered the
shop, than Leonard locked the door.

"Who are these persons?" asked Amabel, rising in great alarm.

"Two watchmen whom I have hired to guard the house," replied Leonard.

"We are come to protect you, fair mistress," said Gregory, "and, if need
be, to cut the Earl of Rochester's throat."

"Oh heavens!" exclaimed Amabel.

"Ghost of Tarquin!" cried Boutefeu, "we'll teach him to break into the
houses of quiet citizens, and attempt to carry off their daughters
against their will. By the soul of Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of
London! we'll maul and mangle him."

"Silence! Bernard Boutefeu," interposed Gregory. "You frighten Mistress
Amabel by your strange oaths."

"I should be sorry to do that," replied Boutefeu--"I only wish to show
my zeal for her. Don't be afraid of the Earl of Rochester, fair
mistress. With all his audacity, he won't dare to enter the house when
he finds we are there."

"Is it your pleasure that we should thrust a halberd through his body,
or lodge a bullet in his brain?" asked Gregory, appealing to Amabel.

"Touch him not, I beseech you," she rejoined. "Leonard, I have your
promise that, if I can prevail upon him to depart, you will not molest
him."

"You have," he replied.

"You hear that," she observed to the watchmen.

"We are all obedience," said Gregory.

"Bless your tender heart!" cried Boutefeu, "we would not pain you for
the world."

"A truce to this," said Leonard. "Come to the yard, we will wait for him
there."

"I will go with you," cried Amabel. "If any harm should befall him, I
should never forgive myself."

"Remember what I told you," rejoined Leonard, sternly; "it depends upon
yourself whether he leaves the house alive."

"Heed him not," whispered Gregory. "I and my comrade will obey no one
but you."

Amabel could not repress an exclamation of surprise.

"What are you muttering, sirrah?" demanded Leonard, angrily.

"Only that the young lady may depend on our fidelity," replied Gregory.
"There can be no offence in that. Come with us," he whispered to Amabel.

The latter part of his speech escaped Leonard, but the tone in which it
was uttered was so significant, that Amabel, who began to entertain new
suspicions, hesitated.

"You must come," said Leonard, seizing her hand.

"The fault be his, not mine," murmured Amabel, as she suffered herself
to be drawn along.

The party then proceeded noiselessly towards the yard. On the way,
Amabel felt a slight pressure on her arm, but, afraid of alarming
Leonard, she made no remark.

The back-door was opened, and the little group stood in the darkness.
They had not long to wait. Before they had been in the yard five
minutes, a noise was heard of footsteps and muttered voices in the
entry. This was followed by a sound like that occasioned by fastening a
rope-ladder against the wall, and the next moment two figures were
perceived above it. After dropping the ladder into the yard, these
persons, the foremost of whom the apprentice concluded was the Earl of
Rochester, descended. They had no sooner touched the ground than
Leonard, drawing his pistols, advanced towards them.

"You are my prisoner, my lord," he said, in a stern voice, "and shall
not depart with life, unless you pledge your word never to come hither
again on the same errand."

"Betrayed!" cried the earl, laying his hand upon his sword.

"Resistance is in vain, my lord," rejoined Leonard. "I am better armed
than yourself."

"Will nothing bribe you to silence, fellow?" cried the earl. "I will
give you a thousand pounds, if you will hold your tongue, and conduct me
to my mistress."

"I can scarcely tell what stays my hand," returned Leonard, in a furious
tone. "But I will hold no further conversation with you. Amabel is
present, and will give you your final dismissal herself."

"If I receive it from her own lips," replied the earl, "I will instantly
retire--but not otherwise."

"Amabel," said Leonard in a low tone to her, "you hear what is said.
Fulfil your promise."

"Do so," cried a voice, which she instantly recognised, in her ear--"I
am near you."

"Ah!" she exclaimed.

"Do you hesitate?" cried the apprentice, sternly.

"My lord," said Amabel, in a faint voice, "I must pray you to retire,
your efforts are in vain. I will never fly with you."

"That will not suffice," whispered Leonard; "you must tell him you no
longer love him."

"Hear me," pursued Amabel; "you who present yourself as Lord Rochester,
I entertain no affection for you, and never wish to behold you again."

"Enough!" cried Leonard.

"Admirable!" whispered Gregory. "Nothing could be better."

"Well," cried the supposed earl, "since I no longer hold a place in your
affections, it would be idle to pursue the matter further. Heaven be
praised, there are other damsels quite as beautiful, though not so
cruel. Farewell for ever, Amabel."

So saying he mounted the ladder, and, followed by his companion,
disappeared on the other side.

"He is gone," said Leonard, "and I hope for ever. Now let us return to
the house."

"I am coming," rejoined Amabel.

"Let him go," whispered Gregory. "The ladder is still upon the wall; we
will climb it."

And as the apprentice moved towards the house, he tried to drag her in
that direction.

"I cannot--will not fly thus," she cried.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Leonard, suddenly turning.

"Further disguise is useless," replied the supposed Gregory
Swindlehurst. "I am the Earl of Rochester. The other was a counterfeit."

"Ah!" exclaimed Leonard, rushing towards them, and placing a pistol
against the breast of his mistress? "Have I been duped? But it is not
yet too late to retrieve my error. Move a foot further, my lord,--and do
you, Amabel, attempt to fly with him, and I fire."

"You cannot mean this?" cried Rochester. "Raise your hand against the
woman you love?"

"Against the woman who forgets her duty, and the libertine who tempts
her, the arm that is raised is that of justice," replied Leonard. "Stir
another footstep, and I fire."

As he spoke, his arms were suddenly seized by a powerful grasp from
behind, and, striking the pistols from his hold, the earl snatched up
Amabel in his arms, and, mounting the ladder, made good his retreat.

A long and desperate struggle took place between Leonard and his
assailant, who was no other than Pillichody, in his assumed character of
Bernard Boutefeu. But notwithstanding the superior strength of the
bully, and the advantage he had taken of the apprentice, he was worsted
in the end.

Leonard had no sooner extricated himself, than, drawing his sword, he
would have passed it through Pillichody's body, if the latter had not
stayed his hand by offering to tell him where he would find his
mistress, provided his life were spared.

"Where has the earl taken her?" cried Leonard, scarcely able to
articulate from excess of passion.

"He meant to take her to Saint Paul's,--to the vaults below the
cathedral, to avoid pursuit," replied Pillichody. "I have no doubt you
will find her there."

"I will go there instantly and search," cried Leonard, rushing up the
ladder.


V.

THE BLIND PIPER AND HIS DAUGHTER

Scarcely knowing how he got there, Leonard Holt found himself at the
great northern entrance of the cathedral. Burning with fury, he knocked
at the door; but no answer being returned to the summons, though he
repeated it still more loudly, he shook the heavy latch with such
violence as to rouse the sullen echoes of the aisles. Driven almost to
desperation, he retired a few paces, and surveyed the walls of the vast
structure, in the hope of descrying some point by which he might obtain
an entrance.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the reverend pile looked so
beautiful, that, under any other frame of mind, Leonard must, have been
struck with admiration. The ravages of time could not now be discerned,
and the architectural incongruities which, seen in the broad glare of
day, would have offended the eye of taste, were lost in the general
grand effect. On the left ran the magnificent pointed windows of the
choir, divided by massive buttresses,--the latter ornamented with
crocketed pinnacles. On the right, the building had been new-faced, and
its original character, in a great measure, destroyed by the tasteless
manner in which the repairs had been executed. On this side, the lower
windows were round-headed and separated by broad pilasters, while above
them ran a range of small circular windows. At the western angle was
seen one of the towers (since imitated by Wren), which flanked this side
of the fane, together with a part of the portico erected, about
twenty-five years previously, by Inigo Jones, and which, though
beautiful in itself, was totally out of character with the edifice, and,
in fact, a blemish to it.

Insensible alike to the beauties or defects of the majestic building,
and regarding it only as the prison of his mistress, Leonard Holt
scanned it carefully on either side. But his scrutiny was attended with
no favourable result.

Before resorting to force to obtain admission, he determined to make the
complete circuit of the structure, and with this view he shaped his
course towards the east.

He found two small doors on the left of the northern transept, but both
were fastened, and the low pointed windows beneath the choir, lighting
the subterranean church of Saint Faith's, were all barred. Running on,
he presently came to a flight of stone steps at the north-east corner of
the choir, leading to a portal opening upon a small chapel dedicated to
Saint George. But this was secured like the others, and, thinking it
vain to waste time in trying to force it, he pursued his course.

Skirting the eastern extremity of the fane--then the most beautiful part
of the structure, from its magnificent rose window--he speeded past the
low windows which opened on this side, as on the other upon Saint
Faith's, and did not pause till he came to the great southern portal,
the pillars and arch of which differed but slightly in character from
those of the northern entrance.

Here he knocked as before, and was answered, as on the former occasion,
by sullen echoes from within. When these sounds died away, he placed his
ear to the huge key-hole in the wicket, but could not even catch the
fall of a footstep. Neither could he perceive any light, except that
afforded by the moonbeams, which flooded the transept with radiance.

Again hurrying on, he passed the cloister-walls surrounding the
Convocation House; tried another door between that building and the
church of Saint Gregory, a small fane attached to the larger structure;
and failing in opening it, turned the corner and approached the
portico,--the principal entrance to the cathedral being then, as now, on
the west.

Erected, as before mentioned, from the designs of the celebrated Inigo
Jones, this magnificent colonnade was completed about 1640, at which
time preparations were made for repairing the cathedral throughout, and
for strengthening the tower, for enabling it to support a new spire. But
this design, owing to the disorganised state of affairs, was never
carried into execution.

At the time of the Commonwealth, while the interior of the sacred fabric
underwent every sort of desecration and mutilation,--while stones were
torn from the pavement, and monumental brasses from tombs,--while carved
stalls were burnt, and statues plucked from their niches,--a similar
fate attended the portico. Shops were built beneath it, and the
sculptures ornamenting its majestic balustrade were thrown down.

Amongst other obstructions, it appears that there was a "high house in
the north angle, which hindered the masons from repairing that part of
it." The marble door-cases, the capitals, cornices, and pillars were so
much injured by the fires made against them, that it required months to
put them in order. At the Restoration, Sir John Denham, the poet, was
appointed surveyor-general of the works, and continued to hold the
office at the period of this history.

As Leonard drew near the portico, he perceived, to his surprise, that a
large concourse of people was collected in the area in front of it; and,
rushing forward, he found the assemblage listening to the denunciations
of Solomon Eagle, who was standing in the midst of them with his brazier
on his head. The enthusiast appeared more than usually excited. He was
tossing aloft his arms in a wild and frenzied manner, and seemed to be
directing his menaces against the cathedral itself.

Hoping to obtain assistance from the crowd, Leonard resolved to await a
fitting period to address them. Accordingly, he joined them, and
listened to the discourse of the enthusiast.

"Hear me!" cried the latter, in a voice of thunder. "I had a vision last
night and will relate it to you. During my brief slumbers, I thought I
was standing on this very spot, and gazing as now upon yon mighty
structure. On a sudden the day became overcast, and ere long it grew
pitchy dark. Then was heard a noise of rushing wings in the air, and I
could just discern many strange figures hovering above the tower,
uttering doleful cries and lamentations. All at once these figures
disappeared, and gave place to, or, it may be, were chased away by,
others of more hideous appearance. The latter brought lighted brands
which they hurled against the sacred fabric, and, in an instant, flames
burst forth from it on all sides. My brethren, it was a fearful, yet a
glorious sight to see that vast pile wrapped in the devouring element!
The flames were so vivid--so intense--that I could not bear to look upon
them, and I covered my face with my hands. On raising my eyes again the
flames were extinguished, but the building was utterly in ruins--its
columns cracked--its tower hurled from its place--its ponderous roof
laid low. It was a mournful spectacle, and a terrible proof of the
Divine wrath and vengeance. Yes, my brethren, the temple of the Lord has
been profaned, and it will be razed to the ground. It has been the scene
of abomination and impiety, and must be purified by fire. Theft, murder,
sacrilege, and every other crime have been committed within its walls,
and its destruction will follow. The ministers of Heaven's vengeance are
even now hovering above it. Repent, therefore, ye who listen to me, and
repent speedily; for sudden death, plague, fire, and famine, are at
hand. As the prophet Amos saith, 'The Lord will send a fire, the Lord
will commission a fire, the Lord will kindle a fire;' and the fire so
commissioned and so kindled shall consume you and your city; nor shall
one stone of those walls be left standing on another. Repent, or burn,
for he cometh to judge the earth. Repent, or burn, I say!"

As soon as he concluded, Leonard Holt ran up the steps of the portico,
and in a loud voice claimed the attention of the crowd.

"Solomon Eagle is right," he cried; "the vengeance of Heaven will
descend upon this fabric, since it continues to be the scene of so much
wickedness. Even now it forms the retreat of a profligate nobleman, who
has this night forcibly carried off the daughter of a citizen."

"What nobleman?" cried a bystander.

"The Earl of Rochester," replied Leonard. "He has robbed Stephen
Bloundel, the grocer of Wood-street, of his daughter, and has concealed
her, to avoid pursuit, in the vaults of the cathedral."

"I know Mr. Bloundel well," rejoined the man who had made the inquiry,
and whom Leonard recognised as a hosier named Lamplugh, "and I know the
person who addresses us. It is his apprentice. We must restore the
damsel to her father, friends."

"Agreed!" cried several voices.

"Knock at the door," cried a man, whose occupation of a smith was
proclaimed by his leathern apron, brawny chest, and smoke-begrimed
visage, as well as by the heavy hammer which he bore upon his shoulder.
"If it is not instantly opened, we will break it down. I have an
implement here which will soon do the business."

A rush was then made to the portal, which rang with the heavy blows
dealt against it. While this was passing, Solomon Eagle, whose
excitement was increased by the tumult, planted himself in the centre of
the colonnade, and vociferated--"I speak in the words of the prophet
Ezekiel:--'Thou hast defiled thy sanctuaries by the multitude of thine
iniquities, by the iniquity of thy traffic. Therefore will I bring forth
a fire from the midst of thee, and will bring thee to ashes upon the
earth, in the sight of all them that behold thee!'"

The crowd continued to batter the door until they were checked by
Lamplugh, who declared he heard some one approaching, and the next
moment the voice of one of the vergers inquired in trembling tones, who
they were, and what they wanted.

"No matter who we are," replied Leonard, "we demand admittance to search
for a young female who has been taken from her home by the Earl of
Rochester, and is now concealed within the vaults of the cathedral."

"If admittance is refused us, we will soon let ourselves in,"
vociferated Lamplugh.

"Ay, that we will," added the smith.

"You are mistaken, friends," returned the verger, timorously. "The Earl
of Rochester is not here."

"We will not take your word for it," rejoined the smith. "This will show
you we are not to be trifled with."

So saying, he raised his hammer, and struck such a tremendous blow
against the door, that the bolts started in their sockets.

"Hold! hold!" cried the verger; "sooner than violence shall be
committed, I will risk your admission."

And he unfastened the door.

"Keep together," shouted the smith, stretching out his arms to oppose
the progress of the crowd. "Keep together, I say."

"Ay, ay, keep together," added Lamplugh, seconding his efforts.

"Conduct us to the Earl of Rochester, and no harm shall befall you,"
cried Leonard, seizing the verger by the collar.

"I tell you I know nothing about him," replied the man. "He is not
here."

"It is false! you are bribed to silence," rejoined the apprentice. "We
will search till we find him."

"Search where you please," rejoined the verger; "and if you _do_ find
him, do what you please with me."

"Don't be afraid of that, friend," replied the smith; "we will hang you
and the earl to the same pillar."

By this time, the crowd had pushed aside the opposition offered by the
smith and Lamplugh. Solomon Eagle darted along the nave with lightning
swiftness, and, mounting the steps leading to the choir, disappeared
from view. Some few persons followed him, while others took their course
along the aisles. But the majority kept near the apprentice.

Snatching the lamp from the grasp of the verger, Leonard Holt ran on
with his companions till they came to the beautiful chapel built by
Thomas Kempe, bishop of London. The door was open, and the apprentice,
holding the light forward, perceived there were persons inside. He was
about to enter the chapel, when a small spaniel rushed forth, and,
barking furiously, held him in check for a moment. Alarmed by the noise,
an old man in a tattered garb, and a young female, who were slumbering
on benches in the chapel, immediately started to their feet, and
advanced towards them.

"We are mistaken," said Lamplugh; "this is only Mike Macascree, the
blind piper and his daughter Nizza. I know them well enough."

Leonard was about to proceed with his search, but a slight circumstance
detained him for a few minutes, during which time he had sufficient
leisure to note the extraordinary personal attractions of Nizza
Macascree.

In age she appeared about seventeen, and differed in the character of
her beauty, as well as in the natural gracefulness of her carriage and
demeanour, from all the persons he had seen in her humble sphere of
life. Her features were small, and of the utmost delicacy. She had a
charmingly-formed nose--slightly _retroussé_--a small mouth, garnished
with pearl-like teeth, and lips as fresh and ruddy as the dew-steeped
rose. Her skin was as dark as a gipsy's, but clear and transparent, and
far more attractive than the fairest complexion. Her eyes were luminous
as the stars, and black as midnight; while her raven tresses, gathered
beneath a spotted kerchief tied round her head, escaped in many a wanton
curl down her shoulders. Her figure was slight, but exquisitely
proportioned; and she had the smallest foot and ankle that ever fell to
the lot of woman. Her attire was far from unbecoming, though of the
coarsest material; and her fairy feet were set off by the daintiest
shoes and hose. Such was the singular and captivating creature that
attracted the apprentice's attention.

Her father, Mike Macascree, was upwards of sixty, but still in the full
vigour of life, with features which, though not ill-looking, bore no
particular resemblance to those of his daughter. He had a good-humoured,
jovial countenance, the mirthful expression of which even his sightless
orbs could not destroy. Long white locks descended upon his shoulders,
and a patriarchal beard adorned his chin. He was wrapped in a loose grey
gown, patched with different coloured cloths, and supported himself with
a staff. His pipe was suspended from his neck by a green worsted cord.

"Lie down, Bell," he cried to his dog; "what are you barking at thus?
Lie down, I say."

"Something is the matter, father," replied Nizza. "The church is full of
people."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the piper.

"We are sorry to disturb you," said Leonard; "but we are in search of a
nobleman who has run away with a citizen's daughter, and conveyed her to
the cathedral, and we thought they might have taken refuge in this
chapel."

"No one is here except myself and daughter," replied the piper. "We are
allowed this lodging by Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon."

"All dogs are ordered to be destroyed by the Lord Mayor," cried the
smith, seizing Bell by the neck. "This noisy animal must be silenced."

"Oh, no! do not hurt her!" cried Nizza. "My father loves poor Bell
almost as well as he loves me. She is necessary to his existence. You
must not--will not destroy her!"

"Won't I?" replied the smith, gruffly; "we'll see that."

"But we are not afraid of contagion, are we, father?" cried Nizza,
appealing to the piper.

"Not in the least," replied Mike, "and we will take care the poor beast
touches no one else. Do not harm her, sir--for pity's sake, do not. I
should miss her sadly."

"The Lord Mayor's commands must be obeyed," rejoined the smith,
brutally.

As if conscious of the fate awaiting her, poor Bell struggled hard to
get free, and uttered a piteous yell.

"You are not going to kill the dog?" interposed Leonard.

"Have you anything to say to the contrary?" rejoined the smith, in a
tone calculated, as he thought, to put an end to further interference.

"Only this," replied Leonard, "that I will not allow it."

"You won't--eh?" returned the smith, derisively.

"I will not," rejoined Leonard, "so put her down and come along."

"Go your own way," replied the smith, "and leave me to mine."

Leonard answered by snatching Bell suddenly from his grasp. Thus
liberated, the terrified animal instantly flew to her mistress.

"Is this the return I get for assisting you?" cried the smith, savagely.
"You are bewitched by a pair of black eyes. But you will repent your
folly."

"I shall never forget your kindness," replied Nizza, clasping Bell to
her bosom, and looking gratefully at the apprentice. "You say you are in
search of a citizen's daughter and a nobleman. About half an hour ago,
or scarcely so much, I was awakened by the opening of the door of the
southern transept, and peeping out, I saw three persons--a young man in
the dress of a watchman, but evidently disguised, and a very beautiful
young woman, conducted by Judith Malmayns, bearing a lantern,--pass
through the doorway leading to Saint Faith's. Perhaps they are the very
persons you are in search of."

"They are," returned Leonard; "and you have repaid me a hundredfold for
the slight service I have rendered you by the information. We will
instantly repair to the vaults. Come along."

Accompanied by the whole of the assemblage, except the smith, who
skulked off in the opposite direction, he passed through the low doorway
on the right of the choir, and descended to Saint Faith's. The
subterranean church was buried in profound darkness, and apparently
wholly untenanted. On reaching the charnel, they crossed it, and tried
the door of the vault formerly occupied by the sexton. It was fastened,
but Leonard knocking violently against it, it was soon opened by Judith
Malmayns, who appeared much surprised, and not a little alarmed, at the
sight of so many persons. She was not alone, and her companion was
Chowles. He was seated at a table, on which stood a flask of brandy and
a couple of glasses, and seemed a good deal confused at being caught in
such a situation, though he endeavoured to cover his embarrassment by an
air of effrontery.

"Where is the Earl of Rochester?--where is Amabel?" demanded Leonard
Holt.

"I know nothing about either of them," replied Judith. "Why do you put
these questions to me?"

"Because you admitted them to the cathedral," cried the apprentice,
furiously, "and because you have concealed them. If you do not instantly
guide me to their retreat, I will make you a terrible example to all
such evil-doers in future."

"If you think to frighten me by your violence, you are mistaken,"
returned Judith, boldly. "Mr. Chowles has been here more than two
hours--ask him whether he has seen any one."

"Certainly not," replied Chowles. "There is no Amabel--no Earl of
Rochester here. You must be dreaming, young man."

"The piper's daughter affirmed the contrary," replied Leonard. "She said
she saw this woman admit them."

"She lies," replied Judith, fiercely. But suddenly altering her tone,
she continued, "If I _had_ admitted them, you would find them here."

Leonard looked round uneasily. He was but half convinced, and yet he
scarcely knew what to think.

"If you doubt what I say to you," continued Judith, "I will take you to
every chamber in the cathedral. You will then be satisfied that I speak
the truth. But I will not have this mob with me. Your companions must
remain here."

"Ay, stop with me and make yourselves comfortable," cried Chowles. "You
are not so much used to these places as I am, I prefer a snug crypt,
like this, to the best room in a tavern--ha! ha!"

Attended by Judith, Leonard Holt searched every corner of the
subterranean church, except the vestry, the door of which was locked,
and the key removed; but without success. They then ascended to the
upper structure, and visited the choir, the transepts, and the nave, but
with no better result.

"If you still think they are here," said Judith, "we will mount to the
summit of the tower?"

"I will never quit the cathedral without them," replied Leonard.

"Come on, then," returned Judith.

So saying, she opened the door in the wall on the left of the choir,
and, ascending a winding stone staircase to a considerable height,
arrived at a small cell contrived within the thickness of the wall, and
desired Leonard to search it. The apprentice unsuspectingly obeyed. But
he had scarcely set foot inside when the door was locked behind him, and
he was made aware of the treachery practised upon him by a peal of
mocking laughter from his conductress.


VI.

OLD LONDON FROM OLD SAINT PAUL'S.

After repeated, but ineffectual efforts to burst open the door, Leonard
gave up the attempt in despair, and endeavoured to make his situation
known by loud outcries. But his shouts, if heard, were unheeded, and he
was soon compelled from exhaustion to desist. Judith having carried away
the lantern, he was left in total darkness; but on searching the cell,
which was about four feet wide and six deep, he discovered a narrow
grated loophole. By dint of great exertion, and with the help of his
sword, which snapped in twain as he used it, he managed to force off one
of the rusty bars, and to squeeze himself through the aperture. All his
labour, however, was thrown away. The loophole opened on the south side
of the tower, near one of the large buttresses, which projected several
yards beyond it on the left, and was more than twenty feet above the
roof; so that it would be certain destruction to drop from so great a
height.

The night was overcast, and the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Still,
there was light enough to enable him to discern the perilous position in
which he stood. After gazing below for some time, Leonard was about to
return to the cell, when, casting his eyes upwards, he thought he
perceived the end of a rope about a foot above his head, dangling from
the upper part of the structure. No sooner was this discovery made, than
it occurred to him that he might possibly liberate himself by this
unlooked for aid; and, regardless of the risk he ran, he sprang upwards
and caught hold of the rope. It was firmly fastened above, and sustained
his weight well.

Possessed of great bodily strength and activity, and nerved by
desperation, Leonard Holt placed his feet against the buttress, and
impelled himself towards one of the tall pointed windows lighting the
interior of the tower; but though he reached the point at which he
aimed, the sway of the rope dragged him back before he could obtain a
secure grasp of the stone shaft; and, after another ineffectual effort,
fearful of exhausting his strength, he abandoned the attempt, and began
to climb up the rope with his hands and knees. Aided by the inequalities
of the roughened walls, he soon gained a range of small Saxon arches
ornamenting the tower immediately beneath the belfry, and succeeded in
planting his right foot on the moulding of one of them; he instantly
steadied himself, and with little further effort clambered through an
open window.

His first act on reaching the belfry was to drop on his knees, and
return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance. He then looked about for an
outlet; but though a winding staircase existed in each of the four
angles of the tower, all the doors, to his infinite disappointment, were
fastened on the other side. He was still, therefore, a prisoner.

Determined, however, not to yield to despair, he continued his search,
and finding a small door opening upon a staircase communicating with the
summit of the tower, he unfastened it (for the bolt was on his own
side), and hurried up the steps. Passing through another door bolted
like the first within side, he issued upon the roof. He was now on the
highest part of the cathedral, and farther from his hopes than ever; and
so agonizing were his feelings, that he almost felt tempted to fling
himself headlong downwards. Beneath him lay the body of the mighty
fabric, its vast roof, its crocketed pinnacles, its buttresses and
battlements scarcely discernible through the gloom, but looking like
some monstrous engine devised to torture him.

Wearied with gazing at it, and convinced of the futility of any further
attempt at descent, Leonard Holt returned to the belfry, and, throwing
himself on the boarded floor, sought some repose. The fatigue he had
undergone was so great, that, notwithstanding his anxiety, he soon
dropped asleep, and did not awake for several hours. On opening his
eyes, it was just getting light, and shaking himself, he again prepared
for action. All the events of the night rushed upon his mind, and he
thought with unutterable anguish of Amabel's situation. Glancing round
the room, it occurred to him that he might give the alarm by ringing the
enormous bells near him; but though he set them slightly in motion, he
could not agitate the immense clappers sufficiently to produce any
sound.

Resolved, however, to free himself at any hazard, he once more repaired
to the summit of the tower, and leaning over the balustrade, gazed
below. It was a sublime spectacle, and, in spite of his distress, filled
him with admiration and astonishment. He had stationed himself on the
south side of the tower, and immediately beneath him lay the broad roof
of the transept, stretching out to a distance of nearly two hundred
feet. On the right, surrounded by a double row of cloisters, remarkable
for the beauty of their architecture, stood the convocation, or
chapter-house. The exquisite building was octagonal in form, and
supported by large buttresses, ornamented on each gradation by crocketed
pinnacles. Each side, moreover, had a tall pointed window, filled with
stained glass, and was richly adorned with trefoils and cinquefoils.
Further on, on the same side, was the small low church dedicated to
Saint Gregory, overtopped by the south-western tower of the mightier
parent fane.

It was not, however, the cathedral itself, but the magnificent view it
commanded, that chiefly attracted the apprentice's attention. From the
elevated point on which he stood, his eye ranged over a vast tract of
country bounded by the Surrey hills, and at last settled upon the river,
which in some parts was obscured by a light haze, and in others tinged
with the ruddy beams of the newly-risen sun. Its surface was spotted,
even at this early hour, with craft, while innumerable vessels of all
shapes and sizes were moored, to its banks. On. the left, he noted the
tall houses covering London Bridge; and on the right, traced the
sweeping course of the stream as it flowed from Westminster. On this
hand, on the opposite bank, lay the flat marshes of Lambeth; while
nearer stood the old bull-baiting and bear-baiting establishments, the
flags above which could be discerned above the tops of the surrounding
habitations. A little to the left was the borough of Southwark, even
then a large and populous district--the two most prominent features in
the scene being Winchester House, and Saint Saviour's old and beautiful
church.

Filled with wonder at what he saw, Leonard looked towards the east, and
here an extraordinary prospect met his gaze. The whole of the city of
London was spread out like a map before him, and presented a dense mass
of ancient houses, with twisted chimneys, gables, and picturesque
roofs--here and there overtopped by a hall, a college, an hospital, or
some other lofty structure. This vast collection of buildings was girded
in by grey and mouldering walls, approached by seven gates, and
intersected by innumerable narrow streets. The spires and towers of the
churches shot up into the clear morning air--for, except in a few
quarters, no smoke yet issued from the chimneys. On this side, the view
of the city was terminated by the fortifications and keep of the Tower.
Little did the apprentice think, when he looked at the magnificent scene
before him, and marvelled at the countless buildings he beheld, that,
ere fifteen months had elapsed, the whole mass, together with the mighty
fabric on which he stood, would be swept away by a tremendous
conflagration. Unable to foresee this direful event, and lamenting only
that so fair a city should be a prey to an exterminating pestilence, he
turned towards the north, and suffered his gaze to wander over
Finsbury-fields, and the hilly ground beyond them--over Smithfield and
Clerkenwell, and the beautiful open country adjoining Gray's-inn-lane.

So smiling and beautiful did these districts appear, that ha could
scarcely fancy they were the chief haunts of the horrible distemper. But
he could not blind himself to the fact that in Finsbury-fields, as well
as in the open country to the north of Holborn, plague-pits had been
digged and pest-houses erected; and this consideration threw such a
gloom over the prospect, that, in order to dispel the effect, he changed
the scene by looking towards the west. Here his view embraced all the
proudest mansions of the capital, and tracing the Strand to Charing
Cross, long since robbed of the beautiful structure from which it
derived its name, and noticing its numerous noble habitations, his eye
finally rested upon Whitehall: and he heaved a sigh as he thought that
the palace of the sovereign was infected by as foul a moral taint as the
hideous disease that ravaged the dwellings of his subjects.

At the time that Leonard Holt gazed upon the capital, its picturesque
beauties were nearly at their close. In a little more than a year and a
quarter afterwards, the greater part of the old city was consumed by
fire; and though it was rebuilt, and in many respects improved, its
original and picturesque character was entirely destroyed.

It seems scarcely possible to conceive a finer view than can be gained
from the dome of the modern cathedral at sunrise on a May morning, when
the prospect is not dimmed by the smoke of a hundred thousand
chimneys--when the river is just beginning to stir with its numerous
craft, or when they are sleeping on its glistening bosom--when every
individual house, court, church, square, or theatre, can be
discerned--when the eye can range over the whole city on each side, and
calculate its vast extent. It seems scarcely possible, we say, to
suppose at any previous time it could be more striking; and yet, at the
period under consideration, it was incomparably more so. Then, every
house was picturesque, and every street a collection of picturesque
objects. Then, that which was objectionable in itself, and contributed
to the insalubrity of the city, namely, the extreme narrowness of the
streets, and overhanging stories of the houses, was the main source of
their beauty. Then, the huge projecting signs with their fantastical
iron-work--the conduits--the crosses (where crosses remained)--the
maypoles--all were picturesque; and as superior to what can now be seen,
as the attire of Charles the Second's age is to the ugly and disfiguring
costume of our own day.

Satiated with this glorious prospect, Leonard began to recur to his own
situation, and carefully scrutinizing every available point on the side
of the Tower, he thought it possible to effect his descent by clambering
down the gradations of one of the buttresses. Still, as this experiment
would be attended with the utmost danger, while, even if he reached the
roof, he would yet be far from his object, he resolved to defer it for a
short time, in the hope that ere long seine of the bell-ringers, or
other persons connected with the cathedral, might come thither and set
him free.

While thus communing with himself, he heard a door open below; and
hurrying down the stairs at the sound, he beheld, to his great surprise
and joy, the piper's daughter, Nizza Macascree.

"I have searched for you everywhere," she cried, "and began to think
some ill had befallen you. I overheard Judith Malmayns say she had shut
you up in a cell in the upper part of the tower. How did you escape
thence?"

Leonard hastily explained.

"I told you I should never forget the service you rendered me in
preserving the life of poor Bell," pursued Nizza, "and what I have done
will prove I am not unmindful of my promise I saw you search the
cathedral last night with Judith, and noticed that she returned from the
tower unaccompanied by you. At first I supposed you might have left the
cathedral without my observing you, and I was further confirmed in the
idea by what I subsequently heard."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard. "What did you hear?"

"I followed Judith to the vaults of Saint Faith's," replied Nizza, "and
heard her inform your companions that you had found the grocer's
daughter, and had taken her away."

"And this false statement imposed upon them?" cried Leonard.

"It did," replied Nizza. "They were by this time more than half
intoxicated by the brandy given them by Chowles, the coffin-maker, and
they departed in high dudgeon with you."

"No wonder!" exclaimed Leonard.

"They had scarcely been gone many minutes," pursued Nizza, "when, having
stationed myself behind one of the massive pillars in the north aisle of
Saint Faith's--for I suspected something was wrong--I observed Judith
and Chowles steal across the nave, and proceed towards the vestry. The
former tapped at the door, and they were instantly admitted by Mr.
Quatremain, the minor canon. Hastening to the door, which was left
slightly ajar, I perceived two young gallants, whom I heard addressed as
the Earl of Rochester and Sir George Etherege, and a young female, who I
could not doubt was Amabel. The earl and his companion laughed heartily
at the trick Judith had played you, and which the latter detailed to
them; but Amabel took no part in their merriment, but, on the contrary,
looked very grave, and even wept."

"Wept, did she?" cried Leonard, in a voice of much emotion. "Then, there
is hope for her yet."

"You appear greatly interested in her," observed Nizza, pausing, in her
narration. "Do you love her?"

"Can you ask it?" cried Leonard, passionately.

"I would advise you to think no more of her, and to fix your heart
elsewhere," returned Nizza.

"You know not what it is to love," replied the apprentice, "or you would
not offer such a counsel."

"Perhaps not," replied Nizza; "but I am sorry you have bestowed your
heart upon one who so little appreciates the boon."

And, feeling she had said too much, she blushed deeply, and cast down
her eyes.

Unconscious of her confusion, and entirely engrossed by the thought of
his mistress, Leonard urged her to proceed.

"Tell me what has become of Amabel--where I shall find her?" he cried.

"You will find her soon enough," replied Nizza. "She has not left the
cathedral. But hear me to an end. On learning you were made a prisoner,
I ran to the door leading to the tower, but found that Judith had locked
it, and removed the key. Not daring to give the alarm--for I had
gathered from what was said that the three vergers were in the earl's
pay--I determined to await a favourable opportunity to release you.
Accordingly I returned to the vestry door, and again played the
eaves-dropper. By this time, another person, who was addressed as Major
Pillichody, and who, it appeared, had been employed in the abduction,
had joined the party. He informed the earl that Mr. Bloundel was in the
greatest distress at his daughter's disappearance, and advised him to
lose no time in conveying her to some secure retreat. These tidings
troubled Amabel exceedingly, and the earl endeavoured to pacify her by
promising to espouse her at daybreak, and, as soon as the ceremony was
over, to introduce her in the character of his countess to her parents."

"Villain!" cried Leonard; "but go on."

"I have little more to tell," replied Nizza, "except that she consented
to the proposal, provided she was allowed to remain till six o'clock,
the hour appointed for the marriage, with Judith."

"Bad as that alternative is, it is better than the other," observed
Leonard. "But how did you procure the key of the winding staircase?"

"I fortunately observed where Judith had placed it," replied Nizza, "and
when she departed to the crypt near the charnel, with Amabel, I
possessed myself of it. For some time I was unable to use it, because
the Earl of Rochester and Sir George Etherege kept pacing to and fro in
front of the door, and their discourse convinced me that the marriage
was meant to be a feigned one, for Sir George strove to dissuade his
friend from the step he was about to take; but the other only laughed at
his scruples. As soon as they retired, which is not more than half an
hour ago, I unlocked the door, and hurried up the winding stairs. I
searched every chamber, and began to think you were gone, or that
Judith's statement was false. But I resolved to continue my search until
I was fully satisfied on this point, and accordingly ascended to the
belfry. You are aware of the result."

"You have rendered me a most important service," replied Leonard; "and I
hope hereafter to prove my gratitude. But let us now descend to the
choir, where I will conceal myself till Amabel appears. This marriage
must be prevented."

Before quitting the belfry, Leonard chanced to cast his eyes on a stout
staff left there, either by one of the bell-ringers or some chance
visitant, and seizing it as an unlooked-for prize, he ran down the
steps, followed by the piper's daughter.

On opening the lowest door, he glanced towards the choir, and there
before the high altar stood Quatremain in his surplice, with the earl
and Amabel, attended by Etherege and Pillichody. The ceremony had just
commenced. Not a moment was to be lost. Grasping his staff, the
apprentice darted along the nave, and, rushing up to the pair,
exclaimed in a loud voice, "Hold! I forbid this marriage. It must not
take place!"

"Back, sirrah!" cried Etherege, drawing his sword, and opposing the
approach of the apprentice. "You have no authority to interrupt it.
Proceed, Mr. Quatremain."

"Forbear!" cried a voice of thunder near them--and all turning at the
cry, they beheld Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, issue from
behind the stalls. "Forbear!" cried the enthusiast, placing himself
between the earl and Amabel, both of whom recoiled at his approach.
"Heaven's altar must not be profaned with these mockeries! And you,
Thomas Quatremain, who have taken part in this unrighteous transaction,
make clean your breast, and purge yourself quickly of your sins, for
your hours are numbered. I read in your livid looks and red and burning
eyeballs that you are smitten by the pestilence."


VII.

PAUL'S WALK.

It will now be necessary to ascertain what took place at the grocer's
habitation subsequently to Amabel's abduction. Leonard Holt having
departed, Pillichody was preparing to make good his retreat, when he was
prevented by Blaize, who, hearing a noise in the yard, peeped cautiously
out at the back-door, and inquired who was there?

"Are you Mr. Bloundel?" rejoined Pillichody, bethinking him of a plan to
turn the tables upon the apprentice.

"No, I am his porter," replied the other.

"What, Blaize!" replied Pillichody. "Thunder and lightning! don't you
remember Bernard Boutefeu, the watchman?"

"I don't remember any watchman of that name, and I cannot discern your
features," rejoined Blaize. "But your voice sounds familiar to me. What
are you doing there?"

"I have been trying to prevent Leonard Holt from carrying off your
master's daughter, the fair Mistress Amabel," answered Pillichody. "But
he has accomplished his villanous purpose in spite of me."

"The devil he has!" cried Blaize. "Here is a pretty piece of news for my
master. But how did you discover him?"

"Chancing to pass along the entry on the other side of that wall about a
quarter of an hour ago," returned Pillichody, "I perceived a rope-ladder
fastened to it, and wishing to ascertain what was the matter, I mounted
it, and had scarcely got over into the yard, when I saw two persons
advancing. I concealed myself beneath the shadow of the wall, and they
did not notice me; but I gathered from their discourse who they were and
what was their design. I allowed Amabel to ascend, but just as the
apprentice was following, I laid hold of the skirt of his doublet, and,
pulling him back, desired him to come with me to his master. He answered
by drawing his sword, and would have stabbed me, but I closed with him,
and should have secured him if my foot had not slipped. While I was on
the ground, he dealt me a severe blow, and ran after his mistress."

"Just like him," replied Blaize. "He took the same cowardly advantage of
me last night."

"No punishment will be too severe for him," rejoined Pillichody, "and I
hope your master will make a terrible example of him."

"How fortunate I was not gone to bed!" exclaimed Blaize, "I had just
taken a couple of rufuses, and was about to put on my nightcap, when,
hearing a noise without, and being ever on the alert to defend my
master's property, even at the hazard of my life, I stepped forth and
found you."

"I will bear testimony to your vigilance and courage," returned
Pillichody; "but you had better go and alarm your master, I will wait
here."

"Instantly I-instantly!" cried Blaize, rushing upstairs.

On the way to Mr. Bloundel's chamber, he met Patience, and told her what
he had heard. She was inclined to put a very different construction on
the story; but as she bore the apprentice no particular good-will, she
determined to keep her opinion to herself, and let affairs take their
course. The grocer was soon aroused, and scarcely able to credit the
porter's intelligence, and yet fearing something must be wrong, he
hastily attired himself, and proceeded to Amabel's room. It was empty,
and it was evident from the state in which everything was left, that she
had never retired to rest. Confounded by the sight, Bloundel then
hurried downstairs in search of the apprentice, but he was nowhere to be
found. By this time, Mrs. Bloundel had joined him, and on hearing
Blaize's story, utterly scouted it.

"It cannot be," she cried. "Leonard could have no motive for acting
thus. He had our consent to the union, and the sole obstacle to it was
Amabel herself. Is it likely he would run away with her?"

"I am sure I do not know," replied Patience, "but he was desperately in
love, that's certain; and when people are in love, I am told they do
very strange and unaccountable things. Perhaps he may have carried her
off against her will."

"Very likely," rejoined Blaize. "I thought I heard a scream, and should
have called out at the moment, but a rufus stuck in my throat and
prevented me."

"Where is the person who says he intercepted them?" asked Bloundel.

"In the yard," answered Blaize.

"Bid him come hither," rejoined his master. "Stay, I will go to him
myself."

With this, the whole party, including old Josyna and Stephen--the two
boys and little Christiana not having been disturbed--proceeded to the
yard, where they found Pillichody in his watchman's dress, who related
his story more circumstantially than before.

"I don't believe a word of it," cried Mrs. Bloundel; "and I will stake
my life it is one of the Earl of Rochester's tricks."

"Were I assured that such was the case," said the grocer, in a stern
whisper to his wife, "I would stir no further in the matter. My threat
to Amabel was not an idle one."

"I may be mistaken," returned Mrs. Bloundel, almost at her wit's end
with anxiety. "Don't mind what I say. Judge for yourself. Oh dear! what
_will_ become of her?" she mentally ejaculated.

"Lanterns and links!" cried Pillichody. "Do you mean to impeach my
veracity, good mistress? I am an old soldier, and as tenacious of my
honour as your husband is of his credit."

"This blustering will not serve your turn, fellow," observed the grocer,
seizing him by the collar. "I begin to suspect my wife is in the right,
and will at all events detain you."

"Detain me! on what ground?" asked Pillichody.

"As an accomplice in my daughter's abduction," replied Bloundel. "Here,
Blaize--Stephen, hold him while I call the watch. This is a most
mysterious affair, but I will soon get at the bottom of it."

By the grocer's directions, Pillichody, who very quietly entered the
house, and surrendered his halberd to Blaize, was taken to the kitchen.
Bloundel then set forth, leaving Stephen on guard at the yard door,
while his wife remained in the shop, awaiting his return.

On reaching the kitchen with the prisoner, Blaize besought his mother,
who, as well as Patience, had accompanied him thither, to fetch a bottle
of sack. While she went for the wine, and the porter was stalking to and
fro before the door with the halberd on his shoulder, Patience whispered
to Pillichody, "I know who you are. You came here last night with the
Earl of Rochester in the disguise of a quack doctor."

"Hush!" cried Pillichody, placing his finger on his lips.

"I am not going to betray you," returned Patience, in the same tone.
"But you are sure to be found out, and had better beat a retreat before
Mr. Bloundel returns."

"I won't lose a moment," replied Pillichody, starting to his feet.

"What's the matter?" cried Blaize, suddenly halting.

"I only got up to see whether the wine was coming," replied Pillichody.

"Yes, here it is," replied Blaize, as his mother reappeared; "and now
you shall have a glass of such sack as you never yet tasted."

And pouring out a bumper, he offered it to Pillichody. The latter took
the glass; but his hand shook so violently that he could not raise it to
his lips.

"What ails you, friend?" inquired Blaize, uneasily.

"I don't know," replied Pillichody; "but I feel extremely unwell."

"He looks to me as if he had got the plague," observed Patience, to
Blaize.

"The plague!" exclaimed the latter, letting fall the glass, which
shivered to pieces on the stone floor. "And I have touched him. Where is
the vinegar-bottle? I must sprinkle myself directly, and rub myself from
head to foot with oil of hartshorn and spirits of sulphur. Mother! dear
mother! you have taken away my medicine-chest. If you love me, go and
fetch me a little conserve of Roman wormwood and mithridate. You will
find them in two small jars."

"Oh yes, do," cried Patience; "or he may die with fright."

Moved by their joint entreaties, old Josyna again departed; and her back
was no sooner turned, than Patience said in an undertone to
Pillichody,--"Now is your time. You have not a moment to lose."

Instantly taking the hint, the other uttered a loud cry, and springing
up, caught at Blaize, who instantly dropped the halberd, and fled into
one corner of the room.

Pillichody then hurried upstairs, while Blaize shouted after him, "Don't
touch him, Master Stephen. He has got the plague! he has got the
plague!"

Alarmed by this outcry, Stephen suffered Pillichody to pass; and the
latter, darting across the yard, mounted the rope-ladder, and quickly
disappeared. A few minutes afterwards, Bloundel returned with the watch,
and was greatly enraged when he found that the prisoner had got off. No
longer doubting that he had been robbed of his daughter by the Earl of
Rochester, he could not make up his mind to abandon her to her fate, and
his conflicting feelings occasioned him a night of indescribable
anxiety. The party of watch whom he had summoned searched the street for
him, and endeavoured to trace out the fugitives,--but without success;
and they returned before daybreak to report their failure.

About six o'clock, Mr. Bloundel, unable to restrain himself longer,
sallied forth with Blaize in search of his daughter and Leonard.
Uncertain where to bend his steps, he trusted to chance to direct him,
resolved, if he were unsuccessful, to lay a petition for redress before
the throne. Proceeding along Cheapside, he entered Paternoster-row, and
traversed it till he came to Paul's Alley,--a narrow passage leading to
the north-west corner of the cathedral. Prompted by an unaccountable
impulse, he no sooner caught sight of the reverend structure, than he
hastened, towards it, and knocked against the great northern door.

We shall, however, precede him, and return to the party at the altar.
The awful warning of Solomon Eagle so alarmed Quatremain, that he let
fall his prayer-book, and after gazing vacantly round for a few moments,
staggered to one of the stalls, where, feeling a burning pain in his
breast, he tore open his doublet, and found that the enthusiast had
spoken the truth, and that he was really attacked by the pestilence. As
to Amabel, on hearing the terrible denunciation, she uttered a loud cry,
and would have fallen to the ground but for the timely assistance of the
apprentice, who caught her with one arm, while with the other he
defended himself against the earl and his companions.

But, in spite of his resistance, they would have soon compelled him to
relinquish his charge, if Solomon Eagle, who had hitherto contented
himself with gazing sternly on what was passing, had not interfered;
and, rushing towards the combatants, seized Rochester and Etherege, and
hurled them backwards with almost supernatural force. When they arose,
and menaced him with their swords, he laughed loudly and contemptuously,
crying, "Advance, if ye dare! and try your strength against one armed by
Heaven, and ye will find how far it will avail."

At this juncture, Leonard Holt heard a musical voice behind him, and
turning, beheld Nizza Macascree. She beckoned him to follow her; and,
raising Amabel in his arms, he ran towards the door leading to Saint
Faith's, through which his conductress passed. All this was the work of
a moment, and when Rochester and Etherege, who rushed after him, tried
the door, they found it fastened withinside.

Just then, a loud knocking was heard at the northern entrance of the
cathedral, and a verger answering the summons, Mr. Bloundel and Blaize
were admitted. On beholding the newcomers, Rochester and his companions
were filled with confusion. Equally astonished at the recounter, the
grocer grasped his staff, and rushing up to the earl, demanded, in a
voice that made the other, despite his natural audacity, quail--"Where
is my child, my lord? What have you done with her?"

"I know nothing about her," replied Rochester, with affected
carelessness.--"Yes, I am wrong," he added, as if recollecting himself;
"lam told she has run away with your apprentice."

Pillichody, who had changed his attire since his escape from the
grocer's dwelling, thought he might now venture to address him without
fear of discovery, and, setting his arms a-kimbo, and assuming a
swaggering demeanour, strutted forward and said, "Your daughter has just
been wedded to Leonard Holt, Mr. Bloundel."

"It is false," cried Bloundel, "as false as the character you just
personated, for I recognise you as the knave who recently appeared
before me as a watchman."

"I pledge you my word as a nobleman," interposed Rochester, "that your
daughter has just descended to Saint Faith's with your apprentice."

"I can corroborate his lordship's assertion," said Etherege.

"And I," added Pillichody. "By the holy apostle to whom this fane is
dedicated! it is so."

"To convince you that we speak the truth, we will go with you and assist
you to search," said Rochester.

Attaching little credit to what he heard, and yet unwilling to lose a
chance of recovering his daughter, the grocer rushed to the door
indicated by his informant, but found it fastened.

"You had better go to the main entrance," said one of the vergers; "I
have the keys with me, and will admit you."

"I will keep guard here till you return," said another verger

Accompanied by Rochester and Etherege, Bloundel then proceeded to the
chief door of the subterranean church. It was situated at the south of
the cathedral, between two of the larger buttresses, and at the foot of
a flight of stone steps. On reaching it, the verger produced his keys,
but they were of no avail, for the door was barred withinside. After
many fruitless attempts to obtain admission, they were fain to give up
the attempt.

"Well, if we cannot get in, no one shall get out," observed the verger.
"The only key that opens this door is in my possession, so we have them
safe enough."

The party then returned to the cathedral, where they found Blaize,
Pillichody, and the two other vergers keeping watch at the door near the
choir. No one had come forth.

Rochester then walked apart with his companions, while Bloundel, feeling
secure so long as he kept the earl in view, folded his arms upon his
breast, and determined to await the result.

By this time, the doors being opened, a great crowd was soon collected
within the sacred structure. Saint Paul's Churchyard, as is well known,
was formerly the great mart for booksellers, who have not, even in later
times, deserted the neighbourhood, but still congregate in
Paternoster-row, Ave-Maria-lane, and the adjoining streets. At the
period of this history they did not confine themselves to the precincts
of the cathedral, but, as has been previously intimated, fixed their
shops against the massive pillars of its nave. Besides booksellers,
there were seamstresses, tobacco-merchants, vendors of fruit and
provisions, and Jews--all of whom had stalls within the cathedral, and
who were now making preparations for the business of the day. Shortly
afterwards, numbers who came for recreation and amusement made their
appearance, and before ten o'clock, Paul's Walk, as the nave was termed,
was thronged, by apprentices, rufflers, porters, water-carriers,
higglers, with baskets on their heads, or under their arms, fish-wives,
quack-doctors, cutpurses, bonarobas, merchants, lawyers, and
serving-men, who came to be hired, and who stationed themselves near an
oaken block attached to one of the pillars, and which was denominated,
from the use it was put to, the "serving-man's log." Some of the crowd
were smoking, some laughing, others gathering round a ballad-singer, who
was chanting one of Rochester's own licentious ditties; some were buying
quack medicines and remedies for the plague, the virtues of which the
vendor loudly extolled; while others were paying court to the dames,
many of whom were masked. Everything seemed to be going forward within
this sacred place, except devotion. Here, a man, mounted on the carved
marble of a monument, bellowed forth the news of the Dutch war, while
another, not far from him, on a bench, announced in lugubrious accents
the number of those who had died on the previous day of the pestilence.
There, at the very font, was a usurer paying over a sum of money to a
gallant--it was Sir Paul Parravicin--who was sealing a bond for thrice
the amount of the loan. There, a party of choristers, attended by a
troop of boys, were pursuing another gallant, who had ventured into the
cathedral booted and spurred, and were demanding "spur-money" of him--an
exaction which they claimed as part of their perquisites.

An admirable picture of this curious scene has been given by Bishop
Earle, in his _Microcosmographia_, published in 1629. "Paul's Walk," he
writes, "is the land's epitome, or you may call it the lesser isle of
Great Britain. It is more than this--it is the whole world's map, which
you may here discern in its perfectest motion, jostling and turning. It
is a heap of stones and men, with a vast confusion of languages; and
were the steeple not sanctified, nothing could be liker Babel. The noise
in it is like that of bees, a strange humming, or buzzing, mixed of
walking, tongues, and feet: it is a kind of still roar, or loud whisper.
It is the great exchange of all discourse, and no business whatsoever,
but is here stirring and afoot. It is the synod of all parts politic,
jointed and laid together in most serious posture, and they are not half
so busy at the Parliament. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you
may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of all
famous lies, which are here, like the legends of Popery, first coined
and stamped in the church. All inventions are emptied here, and not a
few pockets. The best sign of the Temple in it is that it is the
thieves' sanctuary, who rob more safely in a crowd than a wilderness,
while every pillar is a bush to hide them. It is the other expense of
the day, after plays and taverns; and men have still some oaths to swear
here. The visitants are all men without exceptions; but the principal
inhabitants are stale knights and captains out of service, men of long
rapiers and short purses, who after all turn merchants here, and traffic
for news. Some make it a preface to their dinner, and travel for an
appetite; but thirstier men make it their ordinary, and board here very
cheap. Of all such places it is least haunted by hobgoblins, for if a
ghost would walk here, he could not."

Decker, moreover, terms Paul's Walk, or the "Mediterranean Isle," in his
"Gull's Hornbook"--"the only gallery wherein the pictures of all your
true fashionate and complimental gulls are, and ought to be, hung up."
After giving circumstantial directions for the manner of entering the
walk, he proceeds thus: "Bend your course directly in the middle line
that the whole body of the church may appear to be yours, where in view
of all, you may publish your suit in what manner you affect most, either
with the slide of your cloak from the one shoulder or the other." He
then recommends the gull, after four or five turns in the nave, to
betake himself to some of the semsters' shops the new tobacco office, or
the booksellers' stalls, "where, if you cannot read, exercise your
smoke, and inquire who has written against the divine weed." Such, or
something like it, was Paul's Walk at the period of this history.

The grocer, who had not quitted his post, remained a silent and
sorrowful spectator of the scene. Despite his anxiety, he could not help
moralizing upon it, and it furnished him with abundant food for
reflection. As to Rochester and his companions, they mingled with the
crowd--though the earl kept a wary eye on the door--chatted with the
prettiest damsels--listened to the newsmongers, and broke their fast at
the stall of a vendor of provisions, who supplied them with tolerable
viands, and a bottle of excellent Rhenish. Blaize was soon drawn away by
one of the quacks, and, in spite of his master's angry looks, he could
not help purchasing one of the infallible antidotes offered for sale by
the charlatan. Parravicin had no sooner finished his business with the
usurer than he strolled along the nave, and was equally surprised and
delighted at meeting with his friends, who briefly explained to him why
they were there.

"And how do you expect the adventure to terminate?" asked Parravicin,
laughing heartily at the recital.

"Heaven knows," replied the earl. "But what are you doing here?"

"I came partly to replenish my purse, for I have had a run of ill luck
of late," replied the knight; "and partly to see a most beautiful
creature, whom I accidentally discovered here yesterday."

"A new beauty!" cried Rochester. "Who is she?"

"Before I tell you, you must engage not to interfere with me," replied
Parravicin. "I have marked her for my own."

"Agreed," replied Rochester. "Now, her name?"

"She is the daughter of a blind piper, who haunts the cathedral,"
replied Parravicin, "and her name is Nizza Macascree. Is it not
charming? But you shall see her."

"We must not go too far from the door of Saint Faith's," rejoined
Rochester. "Can you not contrive to bring her hither?"

"That is more easily said than done," replied Parravicin. "She is as coy
as the grocer's daughter. However, I will try to oblige you."

With this, he quitted his companions, and returning shortly afterwards,
said, "My mistress has likewise disappeared. I found the old piper
seated at the entrance of Bishop Kempe's chapel, attended by his
dog--but he missed his daughter when he awoke in the morning, and is in
great trouble about her."

"Strange!" cried Etherege; "I begin to think the place is enchanted."

"It would seem so, indeed," replied Rochester.

While they were thus conversing, Pillichody, who was leaning against a
column, with his eye fixed upon the door leading to Saint Faith's,
observed it open, and the apprentice issue from it accompanied by two
masked females. All three attempted to dart across the transept and gain
the northern entrance, but they were Intercepted. Mr. Bloundel caught
hold of Leonard's arm, and Rochester seized her whom he judged by the
garb to be Amabel, while Parravicin, recognising Nizza Macascree, as he
thought, by her dress, detained her.

"What is the meaning of all this, Leonard?" demanded the grocer,
angrily.

"You shall have an explanation instantly," replied the apprentice; "but
think not of me--think only of your daughter."

"My father!--my father!" cried the damsel, who had been detained by
Parravicin, taking off her mask, and rushing towards the grocer.

"Who then have I got?" cried Rochester.

"The piper's daughter, I'll be sworn," replied Etherege.

"You are right," replied Nizza, unmasking. "I changed dresses with
Amabel, and hoped by so doing to accomplish her escape, but we have been
baffled. However, as her father is here, it is of little consequence."

"Amabel," said the grocer, repulsing her, "before I receive you again, I
must be assured that you have not been alone with the Earl of
Rochester."

"She has not, sir," replied the apprentice. "Visit your displeasure on
my head. I carried her off and would have wedded her."

"What motive had you for this strange conduct?" asked Bloundel,
incredulously.

Before Leonard could answer, Pillichody stepped forward, and said to the
grocer, "Mr. Bloundel, you are deceived--on the faith of a soldier you
are."

"Peace, fool!" said Rochester, "I will not be outdone in generosity by
an apprentice. Leonard Holt speaks the truth."

"If so," replied Bloundel, "he shall never enter my house again. Send
for your indentures to-night," he continued sharply, to Leonard, "but
never venture to approach me more."

"Father, you are mistaken," cried Amabel. "Leonard Holt is not to blame.
I alone deserve your displeasure."

"Be silent!" whispered the apprentice; "you destroy yourself. I care not
what happens to me, provided you escape the earl."

"Come home, mistress," cried the grocer, dragging her through the crowd
which had gathered round them.

"Here is a pretty conclusion to the adventure!" cried Parravicin; "but
where is the apprentice--and where is the pretty Nizza Macascree? 'Fore
heaven," he added, as he looked around for them in vain, "I should not
wonder if they have eloped together."

"Nor I," replied Rochester. "I admire the youth's spirit, and trust he
may be more fortunate with his second mistress than with his first."

"It shall be my business to prevent that," rejoined Parravicin. "Help me
to search for her."

       *       *       *       *       *


VIII.

THE AMULET.

As the grocer disappeared with his daughter, Nizza Macascree, who had
anxiously watched the apprentice, observed him turn deadly pale, and
stagger; and instantly springing to his side, she supported him to a
neighbouring column, against which he leaned till he had in some degree
recovered from the shock. He then accompanied her to Bishop Kempe's
beautiful chapel in the northern aisle, where she expected to find her
father; but it was empty.

"He will be back presently," said Nizza. "He is no doubt making the
rounds of the cathedral. Bell will take care of him. Sit down on that
bench while I procure you some refreshment. You appear much in need of
it."

And without waiting for a reply, she ran off, and presently afterwards
returned with a small loaf of bread and a bottle of beer.

"I cannot eat," said Leonard, faintly. But seeing that his kind provider
looked greatly disappointed, he swallowed a few mouthfuls, and raised
the bottle to his lips. As he did so, a sudden feeling of sickness
seized him, and he set it down untasted.

"What ails you?" asked Nizza, noticing his altered looks with
uneasiness.

"I know not," he replied. "I have never felt so ill before."

"I thought you were suffering from agitation," she rejoined, as a
fearful foreboding crossed her.

"I shall be speedily released from further trouble," replied the
apprentice. "I am sure I am attacked by the plague."

"Oh! say not so!" she rejoined. "You may be mistaken."

But though she tried to persuade herself she spoke the truth, her heart
could not be deceived.

"I scarcely desire to live," replied the apprentice, in a melancholy
tone, "for life has lost all charms for me. But do not remain here, or
you may be infected by the distemper."

"I will never leave you," she hastily rejoined; "that is," she added,
checking herself, "till I have placed you in charge of some one who will
watch over you."

"No one will watch over me," returned Leonard. "My master has dismissed
me from his service, and I have no other friend left. If you will tell
one of the vergers what is the matter with me, he will summon the
Examiner of Health, who will bring a litter to convey me to the
pest-house."

"If you go thither your fate is sealed," replied Nizza.

"I have said I do not desire to live," returned the apprentice.

"Do not indulge in these gloomy thoughts, or you are certain to bring
about a fatal result," said Nizza. "Would I knew how to aid you! But I
still hope you are deceived as to the nature of your attack."

"I cannot be deceived," replied Leonard, whose countenance proclaimed
the anguish he endured. "Doctor Hodges, I think, is interested about
me," he continued, describing the physician's residence--"if you will
inform him of my seizure, he may, perhaps, come to me."

"I will fly to him instantly," replied Nizza; and she was about to quit
the chapel, when she was stopped by Parravicin and his companions.

"Let me pass," she said, trying to force her way through them.

"Not so fast, fair Nizza," rejoined Parravicin, forcing her back, "I
must have a few words with you. Have I overrated her charms?" he added
to Rochester. "Is she not surpassingly beautiful?"

"In good sooth she is," replied the earl, gazing at her with admiration.

"By the nut-brown skin of Cleopatra!" cried Pillichody, "she beats Mrs.
Disbrowe, Sir Paul."

"I have never seen any one so lovely," said the knight, attempting to
press her hand to his lips.

"Release me, sir," cried Nizza, struggling to free herself.

"Not till I have told you how much I love you," returned the knight,
ardently.

"Love me!" she echoed, scornfully.

"Yes, love you," reiterated Parravicin. "It would be strange if I, who
profess myself so great an admirer of beauty, did otherwise. I am
passionately enamoured of you. If you will accompany me, fair Nizza, you
shall change your humble garb for the richest attire that gold can
purchase, shall dwell in a magnificent mansion, and have troops of
servants at your command. In short, my whole fortune, together with
myself, shall be placed at your disposal."

"Do not listen to him, Nizza," cried Leonard Holt, in a faint voice.

"Be assured I will not," she answered. "Your insulting proposal only
heightens the disgust I at first conceived for you," she added to the
knight: "I reject it with scorn, and command you to let me pass."

"Nay, if you put on these airs, sweetheart," replied Parravicin,
insolently, "I must alter my tone likewise. I am not accustomed to play
the humble suitor to persons of your condition."

"Perhaps not," replied Nizza; "neither am I accustomed to this
unwarrantable usage. Let me go. My errand is one of life and death. Do
not hinder me, or you will have a heavy crime on your soul--heavier, it
may be, than any that now loads it."

"Where are you going?" asked Parravicin, struck by her earnest manner.

"To fetch assistance," she replied, "for one suddenly assailed by the
pestilence."

"Ah!" exclaimed the knight, trembling, and relinquishing his grasp. "My
path is ever crossed by that hideous spectre. Is it your father who is
thus attacked?"

"No," she replied, pointing to Leonard, "it is that youth."

"The apprentice!" exclaimed Rochester. "I am sorry for him. Let us be
gone," he added to his companions. "It may be dangerous to remain here
longer."

With this they all departed except Parravicin.

"Come with us, Nizza," said the latter; "we will send assistance to the
sufferer."

"I have already told you my determination," she rejoined; "I will not
stir a footstep with you. And if you have any compassion in your nature,
you will not detain me longer."

"I will not leave you here to certain destruction," said the knight.
"You shall come with me whether you will or not."

And as he spoke, he advanced towards her, while she retreated towards
Leonard, who, rising with difficulty, placed himself between her and her
persecutor.

"If you advance another footstep," cried the apprentice, "I will fling
myself upon you, and the contact may be fatal."

Parravicin gazed, furiously at him, and half unsheathed his sword. But
the next moment he returned it to the scabbard, and exclaiming, "Another
time! another time!" darted after his companions.

He was scarcely gone, when Leonard reeled against the wall, and before
Nizza could catch him, fell in a state of insensibility on the floor.

After vainly attempting to raise him, Nizza flew for assistance, and had
just passed through the door of the chapel, when she met Judith Malmayns
and Chowles. She instantly stopped them, and acquainting them with the
apprentice's condition, implored them to take charge of him while she
went in search of Doctor Hodges.

"Before you go," said Judith, "let me make sure that he is attacked by
the plague. It may be some other disorder."

"I hope so, indeed," said Nizza, pausing; "but I fear the contrary."

So saying, she returned with them to the chapel. Raising the apprentice
with the greatest ease, Judith tore open his doublet.

"Your suspicion is correct," she said, with a malignant smile. "Here is
the fatal sign upon his breast."

"I will fetch Doctor Hodges instantly," cried Nizza.

"Do so," replied Judith; "we will convey him to the vaults in Saint
Faith's, where poor Mr. Quatremain has just been taken. He will be
better there than in the pest-house."

"Anything is better than that," said Nizza, shuddering.

As soon as she was gone, Chowles took off his long black cloak, and,
throwing it over the apprentice, laid him at full length upon the bench,
and, assisted by Judith, carried him towards the choir. As they
proceeded, Chowles called out, "Make way for one sick of the plague!"
and the crowd instantly divided, and gave them free passage. In this way
they descended to Saint Faith's, and, shaping their course to the vault,
deposited their burden on the very bed lately occupied by the
unfortunate sexton.

"He has come here to die," observed Judith to her companion. "His attack
is but a slight one, and he might with care recover. But I can bargain
with the Earl of Rochester for his removal."

"Take heed how you make such a proposal to his lordship," returned
Chowles. "From what I have seen, he is likely to, revolt at it."

"Every man is glad to get rid of a rival," rejoined Judith.

"Granted," replied Chowles; "but no man will _pay_ for the riddance when
the plague will accomplish it for him for nothing."

"With due attention, I would answer for that youth's recovery," said
Judith. "It is not an incurable case, like Mr. Quatremain's. And so
Doctor Hodges, when he comes, will pronounce it."

Shortly after this, Nizza Macaseree appeared with a countenance fraught
with anxiety, and informed them that Doctor Hodges was from home, and
would not probably return till late at night.

"That's unfortunate," said Judith. "Luckily, however, there are other
doctors in London, and some who understand the treatment of the plague
far better than he does--Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell, for
instance."

"Do you think Sibbald would attend him?" asked Nizza, eagerly.

"To be sure he would," replied Mrs. Malmayns, "if he were paid for it.
But you seem greatly interested about this youth. I have been young, and
know what effect good looks and a manly deportment have upon our sex. He
has won your heart! Ha! ha! You need not seek to disguise it. Your
blushes answer for you."

"A truce to this," cried Nizza, whose cheeks glowed with shame and
anger.

"You can answer a plain question, I suppose," returned Judith. "Is his
life dear to you?"

"Dearer than my own?" replied Nizza.

"I thought as much," returned Judith. "What will you give me to save
him?"

"I have nothing," rejoined Nizza, with a troubled look--"nothing but
thanks to give you."

"Think again," said Judith. "Girls like you, if they have no money, have
generally some trinket--some valuable in their possession."

"That is not my case," said Nizza, bursting into tears. "I never
received a present in my life, and never desired one till now."

"But your father must have some money?" said Judith, inquisitively.

"I know not," replied Nizza, "but I will ask him. What sum will content
you?"

"Bring all you can," returned Judith, "and I will do my best."

Nizza then departed, while Judith, with the assistance of Chowles,
covered Leonard with blankets, and proceeded to light a fire. Long
before this, the sick youth was restored to animation. But he was quite
light-headed and unconscious of his situation, and rambled about Amabel
and her father. After administering such remedies as she thought fit,
and as were at hand, Judith sat down with the coffin-maker beside a
small table, and entered into conversation with him.

"Well," said Chowles, in an indifferent tone, as he poured out a glass
of brandy, "is it to be kill or cure?"

"I have not decided," replied Judith, pledging him.

"I still do not see what gain there would be in shortening his career,"
observed Chowles.

"If there would be no gain, there would be gratification," replied
Judith. "He has offended me."

"If that is the case, I have nothing further to say," returned Chowles.
"But you promised the piper's daughter to save him."

"We shall see what she offers," rejoined Judith; "all will depend upon
that."

"It is extraordinary," observed Chowles, after a pause, "that while all
around us are sick or dying of the pestilence, we should escape
contagion."

"We are not afraid of it," replied Judith. "Besides, we are part of the
plague ourselves. But I _have_ been attacked, and am, therefore, safe."

"True," replied Chowles; "I had forgotten that. Well, if I fall ill, you
Sha'n't nurse me."

"You won't be able to help yourself then," returned Judith.

"Eh!" exclaimed Chowles, shifting uneasily on his seat.

"Don't be afraid," returned Judith, laughing at his alarm. "I'll take
every care of you. We are necessary to each other."

"So we are," replied Chowles; "so we are; and if nothing else could,
that consideration would make us true to each other."

"Of course," assented Judith. "Let us reap as rich a harvest as we can,
and when the scourge is over, we can enjoy ourselves upon the spoils."

"Exactly so," replied Chowles. "My business is daily-hourly on the
increase. My men are incessantly employed, and my only fear is that an
order will be issued to bury the dead without coffins."

"Not unlikely," replied Mrs. Malmayns. "But there are plenty of ways of
getting money in a season like this. If one fails, we must resort to
another. I shall make all I can, and in the shortest manner."

"Right!" cried Chowles, with, an atrocious laugh. "Right! ha! ha!"

"I have found out a means of propagating the distemper," pursued Judith,
in a low tone, and with a mysterious air, "of inoculating whomsoever I
please with the plague-venom. I have tried the experiment on Mr.
Quatremain and that youth, and you see how well it has answered in both
instances."

"I do," replied Chowles, looking askance at her. "But why destroy the
poor minor canon?"

"Because I want to get hold of the treasure discovered by the help of
the Mosaical rods in Saint Faith's, which by right belonged to my
husband, and which is now in Mr. Quatremain's possession," replied
Judith.

"I understand," nodded Chowles.

While they were thus conversing, Nizza Macascree again returned, and
informed them that she could not find her father. "He has left the
cathedral," she said, "and will not, probably, return till nightfall."

"I am sorry for it, on your account," observed Judith, coldly.

"Why, you will not have the cruelty to neglect the poor young man till
then--you will take proper precautions?" exclaimed Nizza.

"Why should I exert myself for one about whose recovery I am
indifferent?" said Judith.

"Why?" exclaimed Nizza. "But it is in vain to argue with you. I must
appeal to your avarice, since you are deaf to the pleadings of humanity.
I have just bethought me that I have an old gold coin, which was given
me years ago by my father. He told me it had been my mother's, and
charged me not to part with it. I never should have done so, except in
an emergency like the present."

As she spoke, she drew from her bosom a broad gold piece. A hole was
bored through it, and it was suspended from her neck by a chain of
twisted hair.

"Let me look at it," said Judith taking the coin. "Who gave you this?"
she asked, in an altered tone.

"My father?" replied Nizza; "I have just told you so. It was my
mother's."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Judith!

"Have you ever seen it before?" inquired Nizza, astonished at the change
in the nurse's manner.

"I have," replied Judith, "and in very different hands."

"You surprise me," cried Nizza. "Explain yourself, I beseech you."

"Not now--not now," cried Judith, hastily returning the coin. "And this
is to be mine in case I cure the youth?"

"I have said so," replied Nizza.

"Then make yourself easy," rejoined Judith; "he shall be well again in
less than two days."

With this, she set a pan on the fire, and began to prepare a poultice,
the materials for which she took from a small oaken chest in one corner
of the vault. Nizza looked on anxiously, and while they were thus
employed, a knock was heard at the door, and Chowles opening it, found
the piper and one of the vergers.

"Ah! is it you, father?" cried Nizza, rushing to him.

"I am glad I have found you," returned the piper, "for I began to fear
some misfortune must have befallen you. Missing you in the morning, I
traversed the cathedral in search of you with Bell, well knowing, if you
were in the crowd, she would speedily discover you."

His daughter then hastily recounted what had happened. When the piper
heard that she had promised the piece of gold to the plague-nurse, a
cloud came over his open countenance.

"You must never part with it," he said--"never. It is an amulet, and if
you lose it, or give it away, your good luck will go with it."

"Judith Malmayns says she has seen it before," rejoined Nizza.

"No such thing," cried the piper hastily, "she knows nothing about it.
But come with me. You must not stay here longer."

"But, father--dear father!--I want a small sum to pay the nurse for
attending this poor young man," cried Nizza.

"I have no money," replied the piper; "and if I had, I should not throw
it away in so silly a manner. Come along; I shall begin think you are in
love with the youth."

"Then you will not be far wide of the mark," observed Judith, coarsely.

The piper uttered an angry exclamation, and taking his daughter's hand,
dragged her out of the vault.

"You will not get your fee," laughed Chowles, as they were left alone.

"So it appears," replied Judith, taking the pan from the fire; "there is
no use in wasting a poultice."

Shortly after this, the door of the vault again opened, and Parravicin
looked in. He held a handkerchief sprinkled with vinegar to his face,
and had evidently, from the manner in which he spoke, some antidote
against the plague in his mouth.

"Nizza Macascree has been here, has she not?" he asked.

"She has just left with her father," replied Judith.

Parravicin beckoned her to follow him, and led the way to the north
aisle of Saint Faith's.

"Is the apprentice likely to recover?" he asked.

"Humph!" exclaimed Judith; "that depends upon circumstances. Nizza
Macascree offered me a large reward to cure him."

"Is he any connexion of hers?" asked the knight, sharply.

"None whatever," returned Judith, with a significant smile. "But he may
possibly be so."

"I thought as much," muttered the knight.

"He never _shall_ recover," said Judith, halting, and speaking in a low
tone, "if you make it worth my while."

"You read my wishes," replied Parravicin, in a sombre tone. "Take this
purse, and free me from him."

"He will never more cross your path," replied Judith, eagerly grasping
the reward.

"Enough!" exclaimed Parravicin. "What has passed between us must be
secret."

"As the grave which shall soon close over the victim," she rejoined.

Parravicin shuddered, and hurried away, while Judith returned at a slow
pace, and chinking the purse as she went to the vault.

She had scarcely passed through the door, when Nizza Macascree appeared
from behind one of the massive pillars. "This dreadful crime must be
prevented," she cried--"but how? If I run to give the alarm, it may be
executed, and no one will believe me. I will try to prevent it myself."

Crossing the channel, she was about to enter the vault, when Chowles
stepped forth. She shrank backwards, and allowed him to pass, and then
trying the door, found it unfastened.


IX.

HOW LEONARD WAS CURED OF THE PLAGUE.

Nizza Macascree found Judith leaning over her intended victim, and
examining the plague-spot on his breast. The nurse was so occupied by
her task that she did not hear the door open, and it was not until the
piper's daughter was close beside her, that she was aware of her
presence. Hastily drawing the blankets over the apprentice, she then
turned, and regarded Nizza with a half-fearful, half-menacing look.

"What brings you here again?" she inquired, sharply.

"Ask your own heart, and it will tell you," rejoined Nizza, boldly. "I
am come to preserve the life of this poor youth."

"If you think you can nurse him better than I can, you can take my place
and welcome," returned Judith, affecting not to understand her; "I have
plenty of other business to attend to, and should be glad to be released
from the trouble."

"Can she already have effected her fell purpose?" thought Nizza, gazing
at the apprentice, whose perturbed features proclaimed that his slumber
procured him no rest from suffering. "No--no--she has not had time. I
accept your offer," she added, aloud.

"But what will your father say to this arrangement?" asked Judith.

"When he knows my motive, he will not blame me," answered Nizza. "Here I
take my place," she continued, seating herself, "and will not quit it
till he is out of danger."

"Your love for this youth borders upon insanity," cried Judith, angrily.
"You shall not destroy yourself thus."

"Neither shall you destroy him," retorted Nizza. "It is to prevent the
commission of the crime you meditate, and for which you have been
_paid_, that I am determined to remain with him."

As she said this, a singular and frightful change took place in the
nurse's appearance. A slight expression of alarm was at first visible,
but it was instantly succeeded by a look so savage and vindictive, that
Nizza almost repented having provoked the ire of so unscrupulous a
person. But summoning up all her resolution, she returned Judith's
glance with one as stern and steady, if not so malignant as her own. A
deep silence prevailed for a few minutes, during which each fancied she
could read the other's thoughts. In Nizza's opinion, the nurse was
revolving some desperate expedient, and she kept on her guard, lest an
attack should be made upon her life. And some such design did, in
reality, cross Judith; but abandoning it as soon as formed, she resolved
to have recourse to more secret, but not less certain measures.

"Well," she said, breaking silence, "since you are determined to have
your own way, and catch the plague, and most likely perish from it, I
shall not try to hinder you. Do what you please, and see what will come
of it."

And she made as if about to depart; but finding Nizza did not attempt to
stop her, she halted.

"I cannot leave you thus," she continued; "if you _will_ remain, take
this ointment," producing a small jar, "and rub the plague-spot with it.
It is a sovereign remedy, and will certainly effect a cure."

"I will not touch it," returned Nizza.

"His death, then, be upon your head," rejoined Judith, quitting the
vault, and closing the door after her.

Greatly relieved by her departure, Nizza began to consider what she
should do, and whether it would be possible to remove the apprentice to
some safer place. "While occupied with these reflections, the object of
her solicitude heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, fixed them upon
her. It was evident, however, that he did not know her, but as far as
could be gathered from his ravings, mistook her for Amabel. By degrees
he grew calmer, and the throbbing anguish of the tumour in some measure
subsiding, his faculties returned to him.

"Where am I?" he exclaimed, pressing his hand forcibly to his brow, "and
what is the matter with me?"

"You are in a vault, near Saint Faith's," replied Nizza, "and--I will
not deceive you--the disorder you are labouring under is the plague."

"The plague!" echoed Leonard, with a look of horror. "Ah! now I
recollect. I was attacked immediately after Amabel's departure with her
father. Heaven be praised! she is safe. That is some consolation amid
all this misery. Could my master behold me now, he would pity me, and so
perhaps would his daughter."

"Heed her not," rejoined Nizza, in a slightly reproachful tone, "she
does not deserve consideration. To return to yourself. You are not safe
here. Judith Malmayns has been hired to take away your life. Are you
able to move hence?"

"I hope so," replied Leonard, raising himself on his arm.

"Wrap a blanket round you, then, and follow me," said Nizza, taking up
the lamp and hastening to the door. "Ah!" she exclaimed, with a cry of
anguish--"it is locked."

"This building is destined to be my prison, and that treacherous woman
my gaoler," groaned Leonard, sinking backwards.

"Do not despair," cried Nizza; "I will accomplish your deliverance."

So saying, she tried, by knocking against the door and by loud outcries,
to give the alarm. But no answer was returned, and she soon became
convinced that Judith had fastened the door of the charnel, which, it
will be remembered, lay between the vault and the body of Saint Faith's.
Hence, no sound could teach the outer structure. Disturbed by what had
just occurred. Leonard's senses again wandered; but, exerting all her
powers to tranquillize him, Nizza at last succeeded so well that he sunk
into a slumber.

Almost regarding his situation as hopeless, she took up the lamp, and
searching the vault, found the pan containing the half-made poultice.
The fire smouldered on the hearth, and replenishing it from a scanty
supply in one corner, she heated the poultice and applied it to the
tumour. This done, she continued her search. But though she found
several phials, each bearing the name of some remedy for the pestilence,
her distrust of Judith would not allow her to use any of them. Resuming
her seat by the couch of the sufferer, and worn out with fatigue and
anxiety, she presently dropped asleep.

She was awakened after awhile by a slight noise near her, and beheld
Judith bending over the apprentice, with a pot of ointment in her hand,
which she was about to apply to the part affected. The poultice had
already been removed. Uttering a loud cry, Nizza started to her feet,
and snatching the ointment from the nurse, threw it away. As soon as the
latter recovered from her surprise, she seized her assailant, and forced
her into the seat she had just quitted.

"Stir not till I give you permission," she cried, fiercely; "I wish to
cure this young man, if you will let me."

"You intend to murder him," replied Nizza; "but while I live you shall
never accomplish your atrocious purpose. Help! help!" And she uttered a
prolonged piercing scream.

"Peace! or I will strangle you," cried Judith, compressing Nizza's
slender throat with a powerful gripe.

And she would, in all probability, have executed her terrible threat, if
a secret door in the wall had not suddenly opened and admitted Solomon
Eagle. A torch supplied the place of his brazier, and he held it aloft,
and threw its ruddy light upon the scene. On seeing him, Judith
relinquished her grasp, and glared at him with a mixture of defiance and
apprehension; while Nizza, half dead with terror, instantly rushed
towards him, and throwing herself at his feet, besought him to save her.

"No harm shall befall you," replied Solomon Eagle, extending his arm
over her. "Tell me what has happened."

Nizza hastily explained the motive of Judith's attack upon her life. The
plague-nurse endeavoured to defend herself, and, in her turn, charged
her accuser with a like attempt. But Solomon Eagle interrupted her.

"Be silent, false woman!" he cried, "and think not to delude me with
these idle fabrications. I fully believe that you would have taken the
life of this poor youth, and, did I not regard you as one of the
necessary agents of Heaven's vengeance, I would instantly deliver you up
to justice. But the measure of your iniquities is not yet filled up.
Your former crimes are not unknown to me. Neither is the last dark deed,
which you imagined concealed from every human eye, hidden from me."

"I know not what you mean," returned Judith, trembling, in spite of
herself.

"I will tell you, then," rejoined Solomon Eagle, catching her hand, and
dragging her into the furthest corner of the vault. "Give ear to me," he
continued, in a low voice, "and doubt, if you can, that I have witnessed
what I relate. I saw you enter a small chamber behind the vestry, in
which Thomas Quatremain, who once filled the place of minor canon in
this cathedral, was laid. No one was there beside yourself and the dying
man. Your first business was to search his vestments, and take away his
keys."

"Ha!" exclaimed Judith, starting.

"While securing his keys," pursued Solomon Eagle, "the owner awakened,
and uttered a low, but angry remonstrance. Better he had been silent.
Dipping a napkin in an ewer of water that stood beside him, you held the
wet cloth over his face, and did not remove it till life was extinct.
All this I saw."

"But you will not reveal it," said Judith, tremblingly.

"I will not," replied Solomon Eagle, "for the reasons I have just
stated; namely, that I look upon you as one of the scourges appointed by
Heaven."

"And so I am," rejoined Judith, with impious exultation; "it is my
mission to destroy and pillage, and I will fulfil it."

"Take heed you do not exceed it," replied Solomon Eagle. "Lift a finger
against either of these young persons, and I will reveal all. Yes," he
continued, menacingly, "I will disclose such dreadful things against
you, that you will assuredly be adjudged to a gibbet higher than the
highest tower of this proud fane."

"I defy you, wretch!" retorted Judith. "You can prove nothing against
me."

"Defy me?--ha!" cried Solomon Eagle, with a terrible laugh. "First," he
added, dashing her backwards against the wall--"first, to prove my
power. Next," he continued, drawing from her pockets a bunch of keys,
"to show that I speak the truth. These were taken from the vest of the
murdered man. No one, as yet, but ourselves, knows that he is dead."

"And who shall say which of the two is the murderer?" cried Judith.
"Villain! I charge you with the deed."

"You are, indeed, well fitted for your appointed task," returned Solomon
Eagle, gazing at her with astonishment, "for sometimes Heaven, for its
own wise purpose, will allow the children of hell to execute its
vengeance upon earth. But think not you will always thus escape. No, you
may pursue your evil course for a while--you, and your companion in
crime; but a day of retribution will arrive for both--a day when ye
shall be devoured, living, by flames of fire--when all your sins shall
arise before your eyes, and ye shall have no time for repentance--and
when ye shall pass from one fierce fire to another yet fiercer, and
wholly unquenchable!"

As he concluded, he again dashed her against the wall with such violence
that she fell senseless upon the ground.

"And now," he said, turning to Nizza Macascree, who looked on in alarm
and surprise, "what can I do for you?"

"Bear this youth to a place of safety," was her answer.

Solomon Eagle answered by lifting up the pallet upon which Leonard was
laid, with as much ease as if it had been an infant's cradle, and
calling on Nizza to bring the torch, passed with his burden through the
secret door. Directing her to close it after them, he took his way alone
a narrow stone passage, until he came to a chink in the wall commanding
a small chamber, and desired her to look through it. She obeyed, and
beheld, stretched upon a couch, the corpse of a man.

"It is Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon," she said, retiring.

"It is," returned Solomon Eagle, "and it will be supposed that he died
of the plague. But his end was accelerated by Judith Malmayns."

Without allowing her time for reply, he pursued his course, traversing
another long, narrow passage.

"Where are we?" asked Nizza, as they arrived at the foot of a spiral
stone staircase.

"Beneath the central tower of the cathedral," replied Solomon Eagle. "I
will take you to a cell known only to myself, where this youth will be
in perfect safety."

Ascending the staircase, they passed through an arched door, and entered
the great northern ambulatory. Nizza gazed down for a moment into the
nave, but all was buried in darkness, and no sound reached her to give
her an idea that any one was below. Proceeding towards the west, Solomon
Eagle arrived at a small recess in the wall opposite one of the
broad-arched openings looking into the nave, and entering it, pressed
against a spring at the further extremity, and a stone door flying open,
discovered a secret cell, on the floor of which his brazier was burning.
Depositing his burden on the floor, he said to Nizza, "He is now safe.
Go in search of proper assistance, and I will watch by him till you
return."

Nizza did not require a second exhortation, but quitting the cell, and
noticing its situation, swiftly descended the winding staircase, and
hurrying along the northern aisle, proceeded to a small chamber beneath
the tower at its western extremity, which she knew was occupied by one
of the vergers. Speedily arousing him, she told him her errand, and
implored him to remain on the watch till she returned with Doctor
Hodges. The verger promised compliance; and, opening a wicket in the
great doorway, allowed her to go forth. A few seconds brought her to the
doctor's dwelling, and though it was an hour after midnight, her summons
was promptly answered by the old porter, who conveyed her message to his
master. Doctor Hodges had just retired to rest; but, on learning in
whose behalf his services were required, he sprang out of bed, and
hastily slipped on his clothes.

"I would not, for half I am worth, that that poor youth should perish,"
he cried. "I take a great interest in him--a very great interest. He
must not be neglected. How comes he at Saint Paul's, I wonder? But I can
obtain information on that point as I go thither. No time must be lost."

Ruminating thus, he swallowed a glass of sack, and providing himself
with a case of instruments, and such medicines as he thought he might
require, he descended to Nizza. On the way to the cathedral, she
acquainted him with what had befallen Leonard during the last
four-and-twenty hours, and the only circumstance that she kept back was
Judith's attempt on his life. This she intended to reveal at a more
fitting opportunity. The doctor expressed somewhat emphatically his
disapproval of the conduct of Mr. Bloundel, but promised to set all to
rights without loss of time.

"The only difficulty I foresee," he observed, "is that the poor youth is
attacked by the pestilence; and though I may succeed in curing him, his
master will probably have shut up his house before I can accomplish my
object, in which case, all chance of his union with Amabel will be at an
end."

"So much the better," rejoined Nizza, sharply; "she does not deserve
him."

"There I agree with you," returned Hodges. "But could you point out any
one who does?" he added, with a slight but significant laugh.

No answer was returned; and as they had just reached the portico of the
cathedral, they entered the sacred structure in silence.

As they ascended the winding stairs, loud outcries resounded along the
ambulatory, and echoed by the vaulted roof of the nave, convinced them
that the sufferer was again in a state of frenzy, produced by fever and
the anguish of his sore; and on reaching the cell they found him
struggling violently with Solomon Eagle, who held him down by main
force.

"He is in a fearfully excited state, truly," observed Hodges, as he drew
near, "and must not be left for a moment, or he will do himself a
mischief. I must give him a draught to allay the fever, and compose his
nerves--for in this state I dare not have recourse to the lancet."

With this he dressed the tumour; and pouring the contents of a large
phial which he had brought with him in a cup, he held it to the burning
lips of the apprentice, who eagerly quaffed it. It was soon apparent
that the dose produced a salutary effect, and a second was administered.
Still the sufferer, though calmer, continued to ramble as
before--complained that his veins were filled with molten
lead--entreated them to plunge him in a stream, so that he might cool
his intolerable thirst, and appeared to be in great agony. Doctor Hodges
watched by him till daybreak, at which time he sank into a slumber; and
Solomon Eagle, who had never till then relinquished his hold of him, now
ventured to resign his post. The doctor was then about to depart; but at
the urgent solicitation of Nizza, who had stationed herself at the door
of the cell, he agreed to remain a little longer.

Two hours after this, the doors of the cathedral were opened, and a
large crowd soon assembled within the nave, as on the preceding day. The
tumult of voices reached the cell and awakened the sleeper. Before he
could be prevented he started from his bed, and dashing aside the feeble
opposition offered by Nizza and the doctor, ran along the ambulatory,
uttering a loud and fearful cry. Finding the door of the winding
staircase open, he darted through it, and in a few seconds reappeared in
the aisle. Hearing the cries, several persons rushed to meet him; but on
beholding his haggard looks and strange appearance--he was merely
wrapped in a blanket,--they instantly recoiled. Mean-time, Doctor
Hodges, who had run to one of the arched openings looking on the nave,
called out to them to secure the fugitive. But all fled at his approach;
and when he reached the door of the southern transept, the verger,
instead of attempting to stop him, retreated with a cry of alarm. As he
passed through the outlet, one man bolder than the rest caught hold of
him, and endeavoured to detain him. But, leaving the blanket in his
hands, and without other covering than his shirt, the apprentice dashed
across the churchyard--next shaped his course down Saint
Bennet's-hill--then crossed Thames-street,--and finally speeding along
another narrow thoroughfare, reached Paul's Wharf. Gazing for a moment
at the current sweeping past him--it was high-tide,--he plunged head
foremost into it from the high embankment, and on rising to the surface,
being a strong and expert swimmer, struck out for the opposite shore.
Those who beheld him were filled with amazement; but such was the alarm
occasioned by his appearance, that none ventured to interfere with him.
He had not crossed more than a fourth part of the stream when Doctor
Hodges arrived at the wharf; but neither promises of reward nor threats
could induce any of the watermen to follow him. The humane physician
would have sprung into a boat, but feeling he should be wholly unable to
manage it, he most reluctantly abandoned his purpose. Scarcely doubting
what the result of this rash attempt would be, and yet unable to tear
himself away, he lingered on the wharf till he saw Leonard reach the
opposite bank, where an attempt was made by a party of persons to seize
him. But instead of quietly surrendering himself, the apprentice
instantly leapt into the river again, and began to swim back towards the
point whence he had started. Amazed at what he saw, the doctor ordered
his servant, who by this time had joined the group, to bring a blanket,
and descending to the edge of the river, awaited the swimmer's arrival.
In less than ten minutes he had reached the shore, and clambering on the
bank, fell from exhaustion.

"This is a violent effort of nature, which has accomplished more than
science or skill could do," said Hodges, as he gazed on the body, and
saw that the pestilential tumour had wholly disappeared--"he is
completely cured of the plague."

And throwing the blanket over him, he ordered him to be conveyed to his
own house.


X.

THE PEST-HOUSE IN FINSBURY FIELDS.

Not a word passed between the grocer and his daughter, as he took her
home from Saint Paul's. Amabel, in fact, was so overpowered by
conflicting emotions that she could not speak; while her father, who
could not help reproaching himself for the harshness he had displayed
towards Leonard Holt, felt no disposition to break silence. They found
Mrs. Bloundel at the shop-door, drowned in tears, and almost in a state
of distraction. On seeing them, she rushed towards her daughter, and
straining her to her bosom, gave free vent to the impulses of her
affection. Allowing the first transports of joy to subside, Mr. Bloundel
begged, her to retire to her own room with Amabel, and not to leave it
till they had both regained their composure, when he wished to have some
serious conversation with them.

His request complied with, the grocer then retraced his steps to the
cathedral with the intention of seeking an explanation from Leonard,
and, if he saw occasion to do so, of revoking his severe mandate. But
long before he reached the southern transept, the apprentice had
disappeared, nor could he learn what had become of him. While anxiously
pursuing his search among the crowd, and addressing inquiries to all
whom he thought likely to afford him information, he perceived a man
pushing his way towards him. As this person drew near, he recognised
Pillichody, and would have got out of his way had it been possible.

"You are looking for your apprentice, I understand, Mr. Bloundel," said
the bully, raising his hat--"if you desire, it, I will lead you to him."

Unwilling as he was to be obliged to one whom he knew to be leagued with
the Earl of Rochester, the grocer's anxiety overcame his scruples, and,
signifying his acquiescence, Pillichody shouldered his way through the
crowd, and did not stop till they reached the northern aisle, where they
were comparatively alone.

"Your apprentice is a fortunate spark, Mr. Bloundel," he said. "No
sooner does he lose one mistress than he finds another. Tour daughter is
already forgotten, and he is at this moment enjoying a tender
_tête-à-tête_ in Bishop Kempe's chapel with Nizza Macascree, the blind
piper's daughter."

"It is false, sir," replied the grocer, incredulously.

"Unbelieving dog!" cried Pillichody, in a furious tone, and clapping his
hand upon his sword, "it is fortunate for you that the disparity of our
stations prevents me from compelling you to yield me satisfaction for
the insult you have offered me. But I caution you to keep better guard
upon your tongue for the future, especially when addressing one who has
earned his laurels under King Charles the Martyr."

"I have no especial reverence for the monarch you served under," replied
Bloundel; "but he would have blushed to own such a follower."

"You may thank my generosity that I do not crop your ears, base
Roundhead," rejoined Pillichody; "but I will convince you that I speak
the truth, and if you have any shame in your composition, it will be
summoned to your cheeks."

So saying, he proceeded to Bishop Kempe's chapel, the door of which was
slightly ajar, and desired the grocer to look through the chink. This
occurred at the precise time that the apprentice was seized with sudden
faintness, and was leaning for support upon Nizza Macascree's shoulder.

"You see how lovingly they are seated together," observed Pillichody,
with a smile of triumph. "Bowers of Paphos! I would I were as near the
rich widow of Watling-street. Will you speak with him?"

"No," replied Bloundel, turning away; "I have done with him for ever. I
have been greatly deceived."

"True," chuckled Pillichody, as soon as the grocer was out of hearing;
"but not by your apprentice, Mr. Bloundel. I will go and inform
Parravicin and Rochester that I have discovered the girl. The knight
must mind what he is about, or Leonard Holt will prove too much for him.
Either I am greatly out, or the apprentice is already master of Nizza's
heart."

To return to Amabel. As soon as she was alone with her mother, she threw
herself on her knees before her, and, imploring her forgiveness, hastily
related all that had occurred.

"But for Leonard Holt," she said, "I should have been duped into a false
marriage with the earl, and my peace of mind would have been for ever
destroyed. As it is, I shall never be easy till he is restored to my
father's favour. To have done wrong myself is reprehensible enough; but
that another should suffer for my fault is utterly inexcusable."

"I lament that your father should be deceived," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel,
"and I lament still more that Leonard Holt should be so unjustly
treated. Nevertheless, we must act with the utmost caution. I know my
husband too well to doubt for a moment that he will hesitate to fulfil
his threat. And now, my dear child," she continued, "do not the repeated
proofs you have received of this wicked nobleman's perfidy, and of
Leonard's devotion--do they not, I say, open your eyes to the truth, and
show you which of the two really loves you, and merits your regard?"

"I will hide nothing from you, mother," replied Amabel. "In spite of his
perfidy, in spite of my conviction of his unworthiness, I still love the
Earl of Rochester. Nor can I compel myself to feel any regard, stronger
than that of friendship, for Leonard Holt."

"You distress me, sadly, child," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "What will become
of you! I wish my husband would shut up his house. That might put an end
to the difficulty. I am not half so much afraid of the plague as I am of
the Earl of Rochester. But compose yourself, as your father desired,
that when he sends for us we may be ready to meet him with
cheerfulness."

Mr. Bloundel, however, did _not_ send for them. He remained in the shop
all day, except at meal-times, when he said little, and appeared to be
labouring under a great weight of anxiety. As Amabel took leave of him
for the night, he dismissed her with coldness; and though he bestowed
his customary blessing upon her, the look that accompanied it was not
such as it used to be.

On the following day things continued in the same state. The grocer was
cold and inscrutable, and his wife, fearing he was meditating some
severe course against Amabel, and aware of his inflexible nature, if a
resolution was once formed, shook off her habitual awe, and thus
addressed him:

"I fear you have not forgiven our daughter. Be not too hasty in your
judgment. However culpable she may appear, she has been as much deceived
as yourself."

"It may be so," replied Bloundel. "Still she has acted with such
indiscretion that I can never place confidence in her again, and without
confidence affection is as nought. Can I say to him who may seek her in
marriage, and whom I may approve as a husband,--'Take her! she has never
deceived me, and will never deceive you?' No. She _has_ deceived me, and
will, therefore, deceive others. I do not know the precise truth of the
story of her abduction (if such it was) by Leonard Holt, neither do I
wish to know it, because I might be compelled to act with greater
severity than I desire towards her. But I know enough to satisfy me she
has been excessively imprudent, and has placed herself voluntarily in
situations of the utmost jeopardy."

"Not voluntarily," returned Mrs. Bloundel. "She has been lured into
difficulties by others."

"No more!" interrupted the grocer, sternly. "If you wish to serve her,
keep guard upon your tongue. If you have any preparations to make, they
must not be delayed. I shall shut up my house to-morrow."

"Whether Leonard returns or not?" asked Mrs. Bloundel.

"I shall wait for no one," returned her husband, peremptorily.

They then separated, and Mrs. Bloundel hastened to her daughter to
acquaint her with the result of the interview.

In the afternoon of the same day, the grocer, who began to feel
extremely uneasy about Leonard, again repaired to Saint Paul's to see
whether he could obtain any tidings of him, and learnt, to his great
dismay, from one of the vergers, that a young man, answering to the
description of the apprentice, had been attacked by the pestilence, and
having been taken to the vaults of Saint Faith's, had made his escape
from his attendants, and, it was supposed, had perished. Horror-stricken
by this intelligence, he descended to the subterranean church, where he
met Judith Malmayns and Chowles, who confirmed the verger's statement.

"The poor young man, I am informed," said Chowles, "threw himself into
the Thames, and was picked up by a boat, and afterwards conveyed, in a
dying state, to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields, where you will
probably find him, if he is still alive."

Mr. Bloundel heard no more. Quitting the cathedral, he hastened to
Finsbury Fields, and sought out the building to which he had been
directed. It was a solitary farm-house, of considerable size, surrounded
by an extensive garden, and had only been recently converted to its
present melancholy use. Near it was a barn, also fitted up with beds for
the sick. On approaching the pest-house, Mr. Bloundel was greatly struck
with the contrast presented by its exterior to the misery he knew to be
reigning within. Its situation was charming,--in the midst, as has just
been stated, of a large and, until recently, well-cultivated garden, and
seen under the influence of a bright and genial May day, the whole place
looked the picture of healthfulness and comfort. But a closer view
speedily dispelled the illusion, and showed that it was the abode of
disease and death. Horrid sounds saluted the ears; ghastly figures met
the eyes; and the fragrance of the flowers was overpowered by the
tainted and noisome atmosphere issuing from the open doors and windows.
The grocer had scarcely entered the gate when he was arrested by an
appalling shriek, followed by a succession of cries so horrifying that
he felt half disposed to fly. But mustering up his resolution, and
breathing at a phial of vinegar, he advanced towards the principal door,
which stood wide open, and called to one of the assistants. The man,
however, was too busy to attend to him, and while waiting his leisure,
he saw no fewer than three corpses carried out to an outbuilding in the
yard, where they were left till they could be taken away at night for
interment.

Sickened by the sight, and blaming himself for entering near this
contagious spot, Mr. Bloundel was about to depart, when a young
chirurgeon stepped out to him, and, in reply to his inquiries after
Leonard, said: "Twelve persons were brought in here last night, and five
this morning, but I do not remember any of their names. You can go
through the rooms and search for your apprentice, if you think proper."

Mr. Bloundel hesitated, but his humanity overcame his apprehension, and
murmuring a prayer that he might be preserved from infection, he
followed his conductor into the house. Prepared as he was for a dreadful
spectacle, the reality far exceeded his anticipations. Along both sides
of a large room, occupying nearly the whole of the ground-floor, were
rows of pallets, on which were laid the sick, many of whom were tied
down to their couches. Almost all seemed in a hopeless state, and the
cadaverous hue of their countenances proclaimed that death was not far
off. Though the doors and windows were open, and the room was filled
with vapours and exhalations, arising from pans of coal and plates of
hot iron, on which drugs were burning, nothing could remove the putrid,
and pestilential smell that pervaded the chamber. The thick vapour
settled on the panes of the windows, and on the roof, and fell to the
ground in heavy drops. Marching quickly past each bed, the grocer noted
the features of its unfortunate occupant; but though there were many
young men, Leonard was not among the number. His conductor then led him
to an upper room, where he found the chirurgeons dressing the sores of
their patients, most of whom uttered loud shrieks while under their
hands. Here an incident occurred which deeply affected the grocer. A
poor young woman, who had been brought to the pest-house with her child
on the previous evening, had just expired, and the infant, unable to
obtain its customary nourishment, uttered the most piteous cries. It was
instantly removed by a nurse and proper food given it; but Mr. Bloundel
was informed that the plague-tokens had already appeared, and that it
would not probably live over the night. "I have no doubt," said the
young chirurgeon, "it will be buried with its mother." And so it
happened.

The grocer turned away to hide his emotion, and endeavoured through his
blinded gaze to discover Leonard, but, as will be anticipated, without
success. Stunned by the cries and groans that pierced his ears, and
almost stifled by the pestilential effluvia, he rushed out of the house,
and gladly accepted a glass of sack offered him by his conductor, which
removed the dreadful nausea that affected him.

"I now remember that the two last persons brought here were taken to the
barn," observed the chirurgeon; "I will go with you thither, if you
think proper."

The grocer assented, and the chirurgeon crossed the yard, and opened the
door of the barn, on the floor of which upwards of twenty beds were
laid. Passing between them, Mr. Bloundel narrowly scrutinized every
countenance; but, to his great relief, recognised no one. One couch
alone remained to be examined. The poor sufferer within it had drawn the
coverings over his face, and when they were removed he was found quite
dead! He was a young man; and the agony he had endured in the last
struggle was shown by his collapsed frame and distorted features. It was
not, however, Leonard; and, so far satisfied, though greatly shocked,
Mr. Bloundel hurried out.

"Thank Heaven he is not here!" he exclaimed to his conductor.

"You have not seen the dead bodies in the outhouse," returned the other;
"it is possible his may be among them."

"I trust not," rejoined the grocer, shuddering; "but as I have gone thus
far, I will not leave my errand unaccomplished. Suffer me to look at
them."

The chirurgeon then led the way to a spacious outbuilding, once used for
cattle, in the midst of which stood a large frame supporting six bodies,
covered only with a sheet. Mr. Bloundel could not overcome his
repugnance to enter this shed; but the chirurgeon, who appeared
habituated to such scenes, and to regard them lightly, threw off the
sheet, and raised the corpses, one by one, that he might the better view
them. One peculiarity Mr. Bloundel noticed; namely, that the limbs of
these unfortunate victims of the pestilence did not stiffen, as would
have been the case if they had died of any other disorder; while the
blotches that appeared on the livid flesh made them objects almost too
horrible to look upon. In many cases the features were frightfully
distorted--the tongues of the poor wretches swollen and protruding--the
hands clenched, and the toes bent towards the soles of the feet.
Everything denoted the dreadful pangs that must have attended
dissolution.

Greatly relieved to find that the whole of this ghastly group were
strangers to him, Mr. Bloundel thanked the chirurgeon, and departed.
Convinced that he had been deceived by the coffin-maker, he now began to
hope that the whole story was false; but he determined not to rest till
he had thoroughly investigated the matter. Before doing so, however, he
thought it advisable to return home, and accordingly shaped his course
toward Cripplegate, and, passing through the postern, stopped at an
apothecary's shop, and got his apparel fumigated and sprinkled with
spirits of hartshorn and sulphur.

On reaching Wood-street, he noticed, with some uneasiness, a number of
persons gathered together before his dwelling. His fears were speedily
relieved by finding that the assemblage was collected by a preacher, who
was pronouncing an exhortation to them in tones almost as loud and
emphatic as those of Solomon Eagle. The preacher's appearance was very
remarkable, and attracted the attention of the grocer, who joined the
crowd to listen to him. As far as could be judged, he was a middle-aged
man, with black hair floating over his shoulders, earnest features, and
a grey eye of extraordinary brilliancy. His figure was slight and erect,
and his gestures as impassioned as his looks. He spoke with great
rapidity; and his eloquence, combined with his fervent manner and
expression, completely entranced his audience. He was habited in a
cassock and bands, and had taken off his cap, which was held by an
attendant, who stood near the stool on which he was mounted. The latter
differed materially from his master. His closely-cropped hair, demure
looks, sugar-loaf hat, and suit of rusty sable, seemed to proclaim him a
Puritan; but his twinkling eye--for he had but one, and wore a black
patch over the orifice--his inflamed cheeks, and mulberry nose
contradicted the idea.

As soon as the preacher distinguished Mr. Bloundel, he addressed his
discourse to him; and, alluding to his religious habits and general
excellence of character, held him up as an example to others. The grocer
would fain have retreated; but the preacher besought him to stay, and
was proceeding in the same strain, when a sudden interruption took
place. A slight disturbance occurring amid the crowd, the attendant
attempted to check it, and in doing so received a sound buffet on the
ears. In endeavouring to return the blow, he struck another party, who
instantly retaliated, and a general affray commenced--some taking one
side, some the other. In the midst of the confusion three persons forced
their way towards the preacher, knocked him from his stool, and,
assailing him with the most opprobrious epithets, dealt him several
seemingly severe blows, and would have further maltreated him, if Mr.
Bloundel had not interposed, and, pushing aside his assailants, gave him
his hand, and led him into his dwelling, the door of which he closed.
Shortly afterwards, the crowd dispersing, the preacher's companion
entered the shop in search of his master.

"I hope you have sustained no injury during this tumult, reverend and
dear sir?" he asked, with great apparent solicitude.

"I am not much hurt," replied the preacher; "but I have received a blow
on the head, which has stunned me. The faintness will go off presently.
You were the cause of this disturbance, Bambolio."

"I, Doctor Maplebury?" replied Bambolio. "I endeavoured to stop it. But
your reverence looks extremely ill. I am sure, sir," he added to Mr.
Bloundel, "after the high character my master gave you in his discourse,
and which I am persuaded you deserve, you will extend your hospitality
towards him."

"Readily," replied the grocer. "Here, Blaize, assist the reverend
gentleman within, and bid your mistress come down stairs immediately."

Doctor Maplebury was then conveyed between the porter and Bambolio into
the inner room, where he sank into a chair in a complete state of
exhaustion. The next moment Mrs. Bloundel made her appearance with
Amabel. The latter no sooner beheld the preacher, than she started and
trembled so violently, that she could scarcely support herself; but her
mother, who only saw a fainting man, flew to his assistance, and called
to Patience to bring restoratives. These applied, Doctor Maplebury was
soon able to rouse himself sufficiently to gaze round the room, and fix
his eyes on Amabel.

"So our old friends are here again," said Patience in a low tone to
Blaize, as they left the room together.

"Old friends! What do you mean?" rejoined the porter.

"Why, the Earl of Rochester and Major Pillichody," replied Patience. "I
knew them at a glance, and so did Mistress Amabel. But if I hadn't
discovered them, the major would soon have let me into the secret by the
way in which he squeezed my hand."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Blaize, angrily. "I'll go and acquaint my master
with the trick directly."

"Do so," replied Patience, "and the house will be shut up to-morrow. Our
only chance of averting that calamity is in the earl."


XI.

HOW THE GROCER SHUT UP HIS HOUSE.

Placed in a warm bed, and carefully tended by the humane physician,
Leonard Holt slept tranquilly for some hours, and when he awoke, though
so weak as scarcely to be able to lift an arm, he was free from all
ailment. Feeling ravenously hungry, he made known his wants; and,
provisions being set before him, he was allowed to eat and drink in
moderation. Greatly revived by the meal, he arose and attired himself in
habiliments provided for him by Hodges, who, finding him fully equal to
conversation, questioned him as to all that had occurred prior to his
seizure.

"You have acted nobly," observed the doctor, at the close of his
recital; "and if Amabel had a spark of generosity in her composition,
she would worthily requite you. But I do not expect it. How different is
her conduct from that of the piper's pretty daughter. The latter really
loves you; and I would advise you as a friend to turn your thoughts to
her. She will make you happy: whereas the indulgence of your present
hopeless passion--for hopeless it is--can only lead to wretchedness."

"Would I could follow your advice!" replied Leonard; "but, alas! I
cannot. Amabel does not love the Earl of Rochester more blindly, more
constantly, than I love her; and I could as soon change my nature as
transfer my affection to another."

"I am truly sorry for it," rejoined Hodges, in a tone of deep sympathy.
"And you still desire to return to your master?"

"Unquestionably," replied Leonard. "If I am banished the house, I shall
wander round it night and day like a ghost."

"I will accompany you there this evening," rejoined Hodges, "and I trust
I shall be able to arrange matters without compromising Amabel. I wish I
could forward your suit more efficiently; but I see no chance of it,
and, to deal plainly with you, I do not think a marriage with her would
be for your happiness. The brilliant qualities of your noble rival at
present so dazzle her eyes, that your own solid worth is completely
overlooked. It will be well if her father can preserve her from ruin."

"The earl shall die by my hand rather than he shall succeed in his
infamous purpose," cried Leonard, fiercely.

"No more of this!" exclaimed Hodges. "If you would have me take an
interest in you, you will never give utterance to such a sentiment
again. Amabel has another guardian, more powerful even than her
father--the plague. Ere long the earl, who has a sufficient value for
his own safety, will fly the city."

"I hope the pestilence will number him among its victims," observed
Leonard, in a sombre tone.

At this juncture the old porter entered the room, and informed his
master that the piper's daughter was below, and had called to inquire
after the apprentice.

Hodges desired she might be shown upstairs, and the next moment Nizza
was ushered into the room. On beholding the improved appearance of
Leonard, she could not repress an exclamation of delight, while a deep
blush suffused her cheeks.

"You are surprised to find him quite well," observed Hodges, with a
smile. "Nay, you may approach him with safety. There is no fear of
contagion now."

"Having satisfied myself on that point, I will take my leave," rejoined
Nizza, in some confusion.

"Not till you have allowed me to return my thanks, I trust," said
Leonard, advancing towards her, and taking her hand. "I owe my life to
you."

"Then pay the debt by devoting it to her," rejoined Hodges. "Excuse me
for a few minutes. I have business to attend to, but will be back again
directly."

Left alone together, the young couple felt so much embarrassment that
for some minutes neither could utter a word. At length Nizza, who had
suffered her hand to remain in that of Leonard, gently withdrew it.

"Circumstances have given me a claim to your confidence," she faltered,
"and you will not misconstrue my motive, when I ask you whether you
still retain the same affection as formerly for Amabel?"

"Unfortunately for myself, I do," replied Leonard.

"And unfortunately for me too," sighed Nizza. "Doctor Hodges says he can
restore you to your master's favour. You will therefore return home, and
we shall meet no more."

"In these precarious times, those who part, though even for a few days,
can feel no certainty of meeting again," rejoined Leonard. "But I hope
we shall be more fortunate."

"You mistake me," replied Nizza. "Henceforth I shall sedulously avoid
you. Till I saw you, I was happy, and indifferent to all else, my
affections being centred in my father and in my dog. Now I am restless
and miserable. My former pursuits are abandoned, and I think only of
you. Despise me if you will after this frank avowal. But believe that I
would not have made it if I had not resolved to see you no more."

"Despise you!" echoed Leonard. "On no! I shall ever feel the deepest
gratitude towards you; but perhaps it is better we should meet no more."

"And yet you throw yourself in the way of Amabel," cried Nizza. "You
have not resolution to fly from the danger which you counsel me to
shun."

"It is too true," replied Leonard; "but she is beset by temptations from
which I hope to preserve her."

"That excuse will not avail me," returned Nizza, bitterly. "You cannot
live without her. But I have said enough--more than enough," she added,
correcting herself. "I must now bid you farewell--for ever. May you be
happy with Amabel, and may she love you as I love you!"

As she said this she would have rushed out of the room, if she had not
been stopped by Doctor Hodges.

"Whither so fast?" he inquired.

"Oh! let me go--let me go, I implore of you!" she cried, bursting into
an agony of tears.

"Not till you have composed yourself," rejoined the doctor. "What is the
matter? But I need not ask. I wonder Leonard can be insensible to charms
like yours, coupled with such devotion. Everything seems to be at cross
purposes, and it requires some one more skilled in the affairs of the
heart than an old bachelor like myself to set them right. Sit down. I
have a few questions of importance to ask you before you depart."

And partly by entreaty, partly by compulsion, he made her take a chair;
and as soon as she was sufficiently composed to answer him, questioned
her as to what she knew relating to Judith Malmayns and Chowles.

"Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon, has died of the plague in one of the
vaults of Saint Faith's," he observed; "and I more than suspect, from
the appearance of the body, has not met with fair play."

"Your suspicion is well founded, sir," replied Nizza. "Solomon Eagle
told me that the unfortunate man's end was hastened by the plague-nurse.
Nor is this her sole crime. She was hired to make away with Leonard Holt
in the same manner, and would have accomplished her purpose but for the
intervention of Solomon Eagle."

"Neither she nor her partner in guilt, the coffin-maker, shall escape
justice this time," replied Hodges. "I will instantly cause her to be
arrested, and I trust she will expiate her offences at Tyburn. But to
change the subject. I am sincerely interested about you, Nizza, and I
wish I could make Leonard as sensible of your merits as I am myself. I
still hope a change will take place in his feelings."

"My heart tells me the contrary," replied Nizza. "There is no hope for
either of us. Farewell, Leonard!" and she rushed out of the room.

Soon after this Hodges quitted the apprentice, and going before a
magistrate, detailed all that had come to his knowledge concerning the
criminal practices of Judith Malmayns and Chowles. In the course of the
day the accused parties were arrested, and, after a long examination,
conveyed to Newgate. Solomon Eagle could not be found, neither could Sir
Paul Parravicin. It appeared that Mr. Quatremain's residence had been
entered on that very morning, and the box of treasure discovered in
Saint Faith's abstracted. But though the strongest suspicion of the
robbery attached to Chowles and Judith, it could not be brought home to
them.

We shall now proceed to Wood-street, and ascertain what took place
there. Refreshments were placed before the supposed Doctor Maplebury by
the grocer, while his attendant was sent to the kitchen, and directions
given to Blaize to take every care of him; old Josyna was occupied about
her own concerns; and Pillichody, perceiving from the porter's manner
that his disguise was detected, laid aside concealment altogether, and
endeavoured to win the other over to his patron's interests.

"If this marriage takes place," he said, "I am authorized by my noble
friend to state that he will appoint you his steward with a large
salary, and that will be a very different situation from the one you
hold at present. A nobleman's steward! Think of that. You will have a
retinue of servants under your control, and will live quite as well as
his lordship."

"I have some scruples," hesitated Blaize.

"Scruples! pshaw!" cried Pillichody. "You can have no hesitation in
benefiting yourself. If you remain here, the house will be shut up, and
you will be kept a close prisoner for months in the very heart of an
infected city, and I dare say will be buried in yonder cellar; whereas,
if you go with the Earl of Rochester, you will dwell in a magnificent
country mansion--a palace, I ought to call it--enjoy every luxury, and
remain there till the plague is over."

"That last reason decides me," replied Blaize. "But I suppose his
lordship will provide himself with a medicine chest?"

"He has already got one as large as this table," said Pillichody, "and
you shall have the key of it."

"Enough!" exclaimed Blaise. "I am yours."

"Pray, what am I to be?" asked Patience, who had listened to the
foregoing conversation with a smile at Blaize's credulity.

"You, sweetheart!" exclaimed Pillichody. "I will take care of you. You
shall be my housekeeper."

"Hold!" cried Blaize. "I cannot admit that. Patience and I are engaged."

"Since you are promoted to such an important situation, you can make a
better match," observed Patience. "I release you from the engagement."

"I don't choose to be released," returned Blaize; "I will marry you on
the same day that the earl weds Amabel."

"That will be to-night, or to-morrow at the latest," said Pillichody.
"Consent, sweetheart," he added, in a whisper to Patience; "if we can
once get you and your pretty mistress out of the house, we will leave
this simpleton fool in the lurch."

"No, I will never consent to such a thing," returned Patience, in the
same tone.

"What's that you are saying?" inquired Blaize, suspiciously.

"Major Pillichody says he will marry me, if you won't," returned
Patience.

"I have just told you I will," rejoined Blaize. "But he must not
continue his attentions. I feel I shall be very jealous."

"I am glad to hear it," returned Patience, bursting into a loud laugh,
"for that proves you love me."

"Well," observed Pillichody, "I won't interfere with a friend; and as
there is no knowing what may occur, it will be as well to prepare
accordingly."

So saying, he fell to work upon the provisions loading the board, and
ate and drank as if determined to lay in a stock for the next two days.

Meantime the earl made rapid progress in the good opinion both of Mr.
Bloundel and his wife. Adapting his discourse precisely to their views,
and exerting his matchless conversational powers to their full extent,
he so charmed them that they thought they could listen to him for ever.
While thus engaged, he contrived ever and anon to steal a glance at
Amabel, and on these occasions, his eyes were quite as eloquent and
intelligible as his tongue.

Among other topics interesting to the grocer, the persecution to which
his daughter had been recently subjected was brought forward. Mr.
Bloundel could not reprobate the earl's conduct more strongly than his
guest did; and he assailed himself with such virulence that, in spite of
her uneasiness, Amabel could not repress a smile. In short, he so
accommodated himself to the grocer's opinion, and so won upon his
regard, that the latter offered him an asylum in his house during the
continuance of the pestilence. This was eagerly accepted, and the earl,
hazarding a look at Amabel at the moment, perceived her change colour
and become greatly agitated. Mrs. Bloundel also noticed her confusion,
but attributing it to any other than the right cause, begged her, in a
low tone, to control herself.

At length, the opportunity for which the earl had been secretly sighing
occurred. Mr. Bloundel called his wife out of the room for a moment, and
as their eldest son, Stephen, was in the shop, and the two other
children upstairs, Amabel was left alone with her lover. The door was no
sooner closed than he sprang towards her and threw himself at her feet.

"Shall I avail myself of your father's offer, sweetheart?" he cried.
"Shall I remain here with you--the happiest of prisoners--or will you
once more accompany me? This time, our marriage shall not be
interrupted."

"Perhaps not, my lord," she replied, gravely; "but it will be a mock
ceremonial, like the last. Do not attempt to deceive me. I am fully
aware of your intentions, and after the awful fate of the wretched
instrument of your purposed criminality, you will not readily get
another person to tempt in like manner the vengeance of Heaven. I have
had a severe struggle with myself. But at length I have triumphed over
my irresolution. I will not disguise from you that I love you
still,--and must ever, I fear, continue to love you. But I will not be
yours on the terms you propose. Neither will I leave this house with
you, nor suffer you to remain in it, in any other than your proper
character. On my father's return I will disclose all to him. If your
designs are honourable, I am sure he will no longer oppose my union with
you. If not, we part for ever."

"Be prudent, sweet girl, I entreat of you," cried the earl imploringly.
"Your indiscretion will ruin all. There are a thousand reasons why your
father should not be consulted on the matter."

"There are none that weigh with me," she interrupted, decidedly. "I have
been bewildered--beside myself,--but, thank Heaven, I have recovered
before it is too late."

"You are beside yourself at this moment," cried Rochester, unable to
control his anger and mortification, "and will bitterly repent your
folly. Neither your supplications nor my rank will have any weight with
your father, prejudiced as he is against me. Fly with me, and I swear to
make you mine, without a moment's loss of time. Will not my plighted
word content you?"

"No, my lord, you have broken it already," returned Amabel. "My father
shall know the truth."

A dark shade passed over Rochester's countenance, and a singular and
most forbidding expression, which Amabel had once before noticed, took
possession of it. His love for her seemed changed to hate, and she
tremblingly averted her gaze. At this juncture, the door opened, and the
grocer and his wife entered the room. The former started, on seeing
Amabel and the supposed preacher in such close propinquity, and a
painful suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. He was not, however,
kept long in suspense. Throwing off his wig, and letting his own fair
ringlets fall over his shoulders, the earl tore open his cassock, and
disclosed his ordinary rich attire. At the same time, his face underwent
an equally striking change,--each feature resuming its original
expression; and the grocer, though he witnessed the whole
transformation, could scarcely believe that the same individual he had
recently beheld stood before him.

"You now know who I am, Mr. Bloundel, and what brought me hither," said
Rochester, with a haughty salutation.

"I do, my lord," replied the grocer, "and I give you full credit for
your daring and ingenuity. After the manner in which I have been imposed
upon myself, I can make allowance for others." He then turned to Amabel,
and said, in a severe tone, "You are no longer my daughter."

"Father!" she cried, rushing towards him and throwing herself at his
feet, "do not cast me off for ever. I am not now to blame. It is owing
to my determination to disclose all to you that the earl has thus
revealed himself. I might have deceived you further--might have fled
with him."

"Forgive her! oh, forgive her!" cried Mrs. Bloundel--"or, if any ill
happens to her, you will be answerable for it."

"Is this the truth, my lord?" asked the grocer.

Rochester bowed stiffly in acquiescence.

"Then you are again my child," said Bloundel, raising her, and pressing
her to his bosom. "What are your intentions towards her?" he continued,
addressing the earl.

"They may be readily surmised," replied Rochester, with a scornful
laugh.

"Will you wed her, if I agree to the union," asked Bloundel, trembling
with concentrated rage.

Amabel looked at her lover as if her life hung on his answer.

Rochester affected not to hear the question, but, as it was repeated
still more peremptorily, he repeated carelessly,--"I will consider of
it."

"Deceived! deceived!" cried Amabel, falling on her mother's neck, and
bursting into tears.

"This outrage shall not pass unpunished," cried Bloundel. And before the
earl could draw his sword or offer any resistance, he threw himself upon
him, and hurling him to the ground, set his foot upon his bosom.

"Do not kill him," shrieked Amabel, terrified by the stern expression of
her father's countenance.

"What are you about to do?" gasped Rochester, struggling ineffectually
to get free.

"Bid Stephen bring a cord," cried the grocer.

"You are not going to hang him?" inquired Mrs. Bloundel.

"Do as I bid you," rejoined her husband, "and lose no time."

As she was about to leave the room, the door opened, and Doctor Hodges
entered, followed by Leonard and Stephen.

"Mercy on us! what's the matter?" cried the former, in astonishment.

"You are just arrived in time to prevent mischief," replied Mrs.
Bloundel. "Pray interfere between them. My husband will attend to you."

"Arise, my lord," said Mr. Bloundel, removing his foot from the
prostrate nobleman; "you are sufficiently punished by being found in
this disgraceful condition. Remember that your life has been at my
disposal."

Thus liberated, Rochester sprang to his feet, and regarding the group
with a menacing and disdainful look, walked up to Amabel, and saying to
her, "You shall yet be mine," strode out of the room. He then marched
along the passage, and called to Pillichody, who instantly answered the
summons. Accompanied by Hodges, the grocer followed them to the shop,
where the bully not departing so quickly as he desired, and refusing to
be more expeditious, he kicked him into the street. This done, and the
door fastened, he tarried only till he had received all needful
explanations from the friendly physician, and then returning to the
inner room, warmly greeted Leonard, and congratulated him on his
extraordinary recovery from the plague.

Happiness was thus once more restored to every member of the grocer's
family, except Amabel, who still continued downcast and dejected, and
entreated permission to retire to her own room. A cheerful evening was
then passed by the others, and the doctor did not offer to take his
departure till the clock struck eleven.

"It is the last night I shall spend here for some months," he said;
"perhaps the last I shall ever spend here, and I have stayed longer than
I intended, but I did not like to abridge my enjoyment." After shaking
hands cordially with the whole party, he added in an under tone, as he
took leave of Leonard, "Do not forget Nizza Macascree."

On the following day the grocer nailed up the shutters, and locked and
barred the doors of his house.




BOOK THE THIRD.

JUNE, 1665.


I.

THE IMPRISONED FAMILY.

The first few days of their confinement were passed by the grocer's
family in a very uncomfortable manner. No one, except Mr. Bloundel,
appeared reconciled to the plan, and even he found it more difficult of
accomplishment that he had anticipated. The darkness of the rooms, and
the want of ventilation caused by the closed windows and barred doors,
gave the house the air of a prison, and occasioned a sense of oppression
almost intolerable. Blaize declared it was "worse than being in Newgate,
and that he must take an additional rufus to set right his digestion;"
while Patience affirmed "that it was like being buried alive, and that
she would not stand it." Mr. Bloundel paid no attention to their
complaints, but addressed himself seriously to the remedy. Insisting
upon the utmost attention being paid to cleanliness, he had an abundant
supply of water drawn, with which the floors of every room and passage
were washed down daily. By such means the house was kept cool and
wholesome; and its inmates, becoming habituated to the gloom, in a great
degree recovered their cheerfulness.

The daily routine of the establishment was as follows. The grocer arose
at dawn, and proceeded to call up the whole of his family. They then
assembled in a large room on the second story, where he offered up
thanks that they had been spared during the night, and prayed for their
preservation during the day. He next assigned a task to each, and took
care to see it afterwards duly fulfilled; well knowing that constant
employment was the best way to check repining and promote contentment.
Heretofore the servants had always taken their meals in the kitchen, but
now they always sat down to table with him. "I will make no distinction
at this season," he said; "all shall fare as I fare, and enjoy the same
comforts as myself. And I trust that my dwelling may be as sure a refuge
amid this pestilential storm as the ark of the patriarch proved when
Heaven's vengeance was called forth in the mighty flood."

Their devotions ended, the whole party repaired to one of the lower
rooms, where a plentiful breakfast was provided, and of which they all
partook. The business of the day then began, and, as has just been
observed, no one was suffered to remain idle. The younger children were
allowed to play and exercise themselves as much as they chose in the
garret, and Blaize and Patience were occasionally invited to join them.
A certain portion of the evening was also devoted to harmless recreation
and amusements. The result may be anticipated. No one suffered in
health, while all improved in spirits. Prayers, as usual, concluded the
day, and the family retired to rest at an early hour.

This system of things may appear sufficiently monotonous, but it was
precisely adapted to the exigencies of the case, and produced a most
salutary effect. Regular duties and regular employments being imposed
upon each, and their constant recurrence, so far from being irksome,
soon became agreeable. After a while the whole family seemed to grow
indifferent to the external world--to live only for each other, and to
think only of each other--and to Leonard Holt, indeed, that house was
all the world. Those walls contained everything dear to him, and he
would have been quite content never to leave them if Amabel had been
always near. He made no attempt to renew his suit--seldom or never
exchanging a word with her, and might have been supposed to have become
wholly indifferent to her. But it was not so. His heart was consumed by
the same flame as before. No longer, however, a prey to jealousy--no
longer apprehensive of the earl--he felt so happy, in comparison with
what he had been, that he almost prayed that the term of their
imprisonment might be prolonged. Sometimes the image of Nizza Macascree
would intrude upon him, and he thought, with a feeling akin to remorse,
of what she might suffer--for he was too well acquainted with the pangs
of unrequited love not to sympathise deeply with her. As to Amabel, she
addressed herself assiduously to the tasks enjoined by her father, and
allowed her mind to dwell as little as possible on the past, but
employed all her spare time in devotional exercises.

It will be remembered that the grocer had reserved a communication with
the street, by means of a shutter opening from a small room in the upper
story. Hither he would now frequently repair, and though he did not as
yet think it necessary to have recourse to all the precautionary
measures he intended eventually to adopt--such as flashing a pistol when
he looked forth--yet he never opened the shutter without holding a phial
of vinegar, or a handkerchief wetted with the same liquid, to his face.

Before closing his house he had hired a porter, who occupied the hutch
at his door, and held himself in readiness to execute any commission, or
perform any service that might be required. Fresh vegetables, poultry,
eggs, butter, and milk, were brought by a higgler from the country, and
raised by means of a basket or a can attached to the pulley. Butcher's
meat was fetched him from Newgate-market by the porter. This man, whose
name was Ralph Dallison, had been formerly in the employ of the grocer,
who, knowing his character, could place entire reliance on him. Dallison
reported the progress of the pestilence daily, and acquainted him with
the increasing amount of the bills of mortality. Several houses, he
said, were infected in Cheapside, and two in Wood-street, one of which
was but a short distance from the grocer's habitation. A watchman was
stationed at the door, and the red cross marked upon it, and on the
following night the grocer heard the sound of the doleful bell
announcing the approach of the pest-cart.

The weather still continued as serene and beautiful as ever, but no
refreshing showers fell--no soft and healthful breezes blew--and it was
now found to be true, what had been prognosticated--viz, that with the
heats of summer the plague would fearfully increase. The grocer was not
incommoded in the same degree as his neighbours. By excluding the light
he excluded the heat, and the care which he took to have his house
washed down kept it cool. The middle of June had arrived, and such
dismal accounts were now brought him of the havoc occasioned by the
scourge, that he would no longer take in fresh provisions, but began to
open his stores. Dallison told him that the alarm was worse than
ever--that vast numbers were endeavouring to leave the city, but no one
could now do so without a certificate, which was never granted if the
slightest suspicion was attached to the party.

"If things go on in this way," said the porter, "London will soon be
deserted. No business is conducted, as it used to be, and everybody is
viewed with distrust. The preachers, who ought to be the last to quit,
have left their churches, and the Lord's day is no longer observed. Many
medical men even have departed, declaring their services are no longer
of any avail. All public amusements are suspended, and the taverns are
only open to the profane and dissolute, who deride God's judgments, and
declare they have no fear. Robberies, murders, and other crimes, have
greatly increased, and the most dreadful deeds are now committed with
impunity. You have done wisely, sir, in protecting yourself against
them."

"I have reason to be thankful that I have done so," replied Bloundel.
And he closed his shutter to meditate on what he had just heard.

And there was abundant food for reflection. Around him lay a great and
populous city, hemmed in, as by a fire, by an exterminating plague, that
spared neither age, condition, nor sex. No man could tell what the end
of all this would be--neither at what point the wrath of the offended
Deity would stop--nor whether He would relent, till He had utterly
destroyed a people who so contemned his word. Scarcely daring to hope
for leniency, and filled with a dreadful foreboding of what would ensue,
the grocer addressed a long and fervent supplication to Heaven,
imploring a mitigation of its wrath.

On joining his family, his grave manner and silence showed how
powerfully he had been affected. No one questioned him as to what had
occurred, but all understood he had received some distressing
intelligence.

Amid his anxiety one circumstance gave him unalloyed satisfaction. This
was the change wrought in Amabel's character. It has been stated that
she had become extremely devout, and passed the whole of the time not
appointed for other occupations, in the study of the Scriptures, or in
prayer. Her manner was extremely sedate, and her conversation assumed a
tone that gave her parents, and especially her father, inexpressible
pleasure. Mrs. Bloundel would have been equally delighted with the
change, if it had tended to forward her own favourite scheme of a union
with Leonard; but as this was not the case, though she rejoiced in the
improvement, she still was not entirely satisfied. She could not help
noting also, that her daughter had become pale and thin, and though she
uttered no complaint, Mrs. Bloundel began to fear her health was
declining. Leonard Holt looked on in wonder and admiration, and if
possible his love increased, though his hopes diminished; for though
Amabel was kinder to him than before, her kindness seemed the result
rather of a sense of duty than regard.

Upon one occasion they were left alone together, and instead of quitting
the room, as she had been accustomed, Amabel called to Leonard, who was
about to depart, and requested him to stay. The apprentice instantly
obeyed; the colour forsook his cheek, and his heart beat violently.

"You desire to speak with me, Amabel," he said:--"Ha! you have
relented?--Is there any hope for me?"

"Alas! no," she replied; "and it is on that very point I have now
detained you. You will, I am sure, rejoice to learn that I have at
length fully regained my peace of mind, and have become sensible of the
weakness of which I have been guilty--of the folly, worse than folly, I
have committed. My feelings are now under proper restraint, and viewing
myself with other eyes, I see how culpable I have been. Oh! Leonard, if
you knew the effort it has been to conquer the fatal passion that
consumed me, if I were to tell you of the pangs it has cost me, of the
tears I have shed, of the heart-quakes endured, you would pity me."

"I do, indeed, pity you," replied Leonard, "for my own sufferings have
been equally severe. But I have not been as successful as you in
subduing them."

"Because you have not pursued the right means, Leonard," she rejoined.
"Fix your thoughts on high; build your hopes of happiness on Heaven;
strengthen your faith; and you will soon find the victory easy. A short
time ago I thought only of worldly pleasures, and was ensnared by vanity
and admiration, enchained to one whom I knew to be worthless, and who
pursued me only to destroy me. Religion has preserved me from the snare,
and religion will restore you to happiness. But you must devote yourself
to Heaven, not lightly, but with your whole soul. You must forget
me--forget yourself--forget all but the grand object. And this is a
season of all others, when it is most needful to lead a life of piety,
to look upon yourself as dead to this world, and to be ever prepared for
that to come. I shudder to think what might have been my portion had I
perished in my sin."

"Yours is a most happy frame of mind," returned Leonard, "and I would I
had a chance of attaining the same tranquillity. But if you have
conquered your love for the earl,--if your heart is disengaged, why deny
me a hope?"

"My heart is _not_ disengaged, Leonard," she replied; "it is engrossed
by Heaven. While the plague is raging around us thus--while thousands
are daily carried off by that devouring scourge--and while every hour,
every moment, may be our last, our thoughts ought always to be fixed
above. I have ceased to love the earl, but I can never love another, and
therefore it would be unjust to you, to whom I owe so much, to hold out
hopes that never can be realized."

"Alas! alas!" cried Leonard, unable to control his emotion.

"Compose yourself, dear Leonard," she cried, greatly moved. "I would I
could comply with your wishes. But, alas! I cannot. I could only give
you," she added, in a tone so thrilling, that it froze the blood in his
veins--"a breaking, perhaps a broken heart!"

"Gracious heaven!" exclaimed Leonard, becoming as pale as death; "is it
come to this?"

"Again, I beg you to compose yourself," she rejoined, calmly--"and I
entreat you not to let what I have told you pass your lips. I would not
alarm my father, or my dear and anxious mother, on my account. And there
may be no reason for alarm. Promise me, therefore, you will be silent."

Leonard reluctantly gave the required pledge.

"I have unwittingly been the cause of much affliction to you," pursued
Amabel--"and would gladly see you happy, and there is one person, I
think, who would make you so--I mean Nizza Macascree. From what she said
to me when we were alone together in the vaults of Saint Faith's, I am
sure she is sincerely attached to you. Could you not requite her love?"

"No," replied Leonard. "There is no change in affection like mine."

"Pursue the course I have advised," replied Amabel, "and you will find
all your troubles vanish. Farewell! I depend upon your silence!"

And she quitted the room, leaving Leonard in a state of indescribable
anxiety.

Faithful, however, to his promise, he made no mention of his uneasiness
to the grocer or his wife, but indulged his grief in secret. Ignorant of
what was passing, Mr. Bloundel, who was still not without apprehension
of some further attempt on the part of the earl, sent Dallison to make
inquiries after him, and learnt that he was at Whitehall, but that the
court had fixed to remove to Hampton Court at the end of June. The
porter also informed him that the city was emptying fast--that the Lord
Mayor's residence was literally besieged with applications for bills of
health--that officers were stationed at the gates--and that, besides
these, barriers and turnpikes were erected on all the main roads, at
which the certificates were required to be exhibited--and that such
persons as escaped without them were driven back by the inhabitants of
the neighbouring villages, who refused to supply them with necessaries;
and as they could not return home, many had perished of want, or perhaps
of the pestilence, in the open fields. Horses and coaches, he added,
were not to be procured, except at exorbitant prices; and thousands had
departed on foot, locking up their houses, and leaving their effects
behind them.

"In consequence of this," added Dallison, "several houses have been
broken open; and though the watch had been trebled, still they cannot be
in all places at once; and strong as the force is, it is not adequate to
the present emergency. Bands of robbers stalk the streets at night,
taking vehicles with them, built to resemble pest-carts, and beating off
the watch, they break open the houses, and carry off any goods they
please."

This intelligence greatly alarmed the grocer, and he began to fear his
plans would be defeated in an unexpected manner. He engaged Dallison to
procure another trusty companion to take his place at night, and
furnished him with money to purchase arms. He no longer slept as
tranquilly as before, but frequently repaired to his place of
observation to see that the watchman was at his post, and that all was
secure. For the last few days, he had remarked with some uneasiness that
a youth frequently passed the house and gazed at the barred windows, and
he at first imagined he might be leagued with the nocturnal marauders he
had heard of; but the prepossessing appearance of the stripling, who
could not be more than sixteen, and who was singularly slightly made,
soon dispelled the idea. Still, as he constantly appeared at the same
spot, the grocer began to have a new apprehension, and to suspect he was
an emissary of the Earl of Rochester, and he sent Dallison to inquire
his business. The youth returned an evasive answer, and withdrew; but
the next day he was there again. On this occasion, Mr. Bloundel pointed
him out to Leonard Holt, and asked him if he had seen him before. The
youth's back being towards them, the apprentice unhesitatingly answered
in the negative, but as the subject of investigation turned the next
moment, and looked up, revealing features of feminine delicacy and
beauty, set off by long flowing jet-black ringlets, Leonard started, and
coloured.

"I was mistaken," he said, "I _have_ seen him before."

"Is he one of the Earl of Rochester's pages?" asked Mr. Bloundel.

"No," replied Leonard, "and you need not be uneasy about him. I am sure
he intends no harm."

Thus satisfied, the grocer thought no more about the matter. He then
arranged with Leonard that he should visit the window at certain hours
on alternate nights with himself, and appointed the following night as
that on which the apprentice's duties should commence.

On the same night, however, an alarming incident occurred, which kept
the grocer and his apprentice for a long time on the watch. The family
had just retired to rest when the report of fire-arms was heard close to
the street door, and Mr. Bloundel hastily calling up Leonard, they
repaired to the room overlooking the street, and found that a desperate
struggle was going on below. The moon being overclouded, and the lantern
extinguished, it was too dark to discern the figures of the combatants,
and in a few seconds all became silent, except the groans of a wounded
man. Mr. Bloundel then called out to know what was the matter, and
ascertained from the sufferer, who proved to be his own watchman, that
the adjoining house, being infected, had been shut up by the
authorities; and its owner, unable to bear the restraint, had burst open
the door, shot the watchman stationed at it, and firing another pistol
at the poor wretch who was making the statement, because he endeavoured
to oppose his flight, had subsequently attacked him with his sword. It
was a great grief to Mr. Bloundel not to be able to aid the unfortunate
watchman, and he had almost determined to hazard a descent by the
pulley, when a musical voice was heard below, and the grocer soon
understood that the youth, about whom his curiosity had been excited,
was raising the sufferer, and endeavouring to stanch his wounds. Finding
this impossible, however, at Mr. Bloundel's request, he went in search
of assistance, and presently afterwards returned with a posse of men,
bearing halberds and lanterns, who carried off the wounded man, and
afterwards started in pursuit of the murderer.

Mr. Bloundel then entered into conversation with the youth, who informed
him that his name was Flitcroft, that he was without a home, all his
relations having died of the plague, and that he was anxious to serve as
a watchman in place of the poor wretch who had just been removed.
Leonard remonstrated against this arrangement, but Mr. Bloundel was so
much pleased with Flitcroft's conduct that he would listen to no
objection. Accordingly provisions were lowered down in a basket to the
poor youth, and he stationed himself in the hutch. Nothing material
occurred during the day. Flitcroft resigned his post to Dallison, but
returned in the evening.

At midnight, Leonard took his turn to watch. It was a bright moonlight
night, but though he occasionally looked out into the street, and
perceived Flitcroft below, he gave no intimation of his presence. All at
once, however, he was alarmed by a loud cry, and opening the shutter,
perceived the youth struggling with two persons, whom he recognised as
Sir Paul Parravicin and Pillichody.

He shouted to them to release their captive, but they laughed at his
vociferations, and in spite of his resistance dragged the youth away.
Maddened at the sight, Leonard lowered the rope as quickly as he could
with the intention of descending by it. At this moment, Flitcroft turned
an agonized look behind him, and perceiving what had been done, broke
suddenly from his captors, and before he could be prevented, sprang into
the basket, and laid hold of the rope. Leonard, who had seen the
movement, and divined its object, drew up the pulley with the quickness
of thought; and so expeditiously was the whole accomplished, that ere
the knight and his companion reached the spot, Flitcroft was above their
heads, and the next moment was pulled through the window, and in safety
by the side of Leonard.


II.

HOW FIRES WERE LIGHTED IN THE STREETS.

Nizza Macascree, for it is useless to affect further mystery, as soon as
she could find utterance, murmured her thanks to the apprentice, whose
satisfaction at her deliverance was greatly diminished by his fears lest
his master should disapprove of what he had done. Seeing his uneasiness,
and guessing the cause, Nizza hastened to relieve it.

"I reproach myself bitterly for having placed you in this situation!"
she said, "but I could not help it, and will free you from my presence
the moment I can do so with safety. When I bade you farewell, I meant it
to be for ever, and persuaded myself I could adhere to my resolution.
But I was deceived. You would pity me, were I to tell you the anguish I
endured. I could not accompany my poor father in his rambles; and if I
went forth at all, my steps involuntarily led me to Wood-street. At
last, I resolved to disguise myself, and borrowed this suit from a Jew
clothesman, who has a stall in Saint Paul's. Thus equipped, I paced
backwards and forwards before the house, in the hope of obtaining a
glimpse of you, and fortune has favoured me more than I expected, though
it has led to this unhappy result. Heaven only knows what will become of
me!" she added, bursting into tears. "Oh! that the pestilence would
select me as one of its victims. But, like your own sex, it shuns all
those who court it."

"I can neither advise you," replied Leonard, in sombre tone, "nor help
you. Ah!" he exclaimed, as the sounds of violent blows were heard
against the door below--"your persecutors are trying to break into the
house."

Rushing to the window, and gazing downwards, he perceived Sir Paul
Parravicin and Pillichody battering against the shop door, and
endeavouring to burst it open. It was, however, so stoutly barricaded,
that it resisted all their efforts.

"What is to be done?" cried Leonard. "The noise will certainly alarm my
master, and you will be discovered."

"Heed me not," rejoined Nizza, distractedly, "you shall not run any risk
on my account. Let me down the pulley. Deliver me to them. Anything is
better than that you should suffer by my indiscretion."

"No, no," replied Leonard; "Mr. Bloundel shall know all. His love for
his own daughter will make him feel for you. But come what will, I will
not abandon you."

As he spoke a timid knock was heard at the door, and a voice without
exclaimed, in accents of the utmost trepidation, "Are you there,
Leonard?--Robbers are breaking into the house. We shall all be
murdered."

"Come in, Blaize," returned Leonard, opening the door and admitting the
porter--"you may be of some assistance to me."

"In what way?" demanded Blaize. "Ah! who's this?" he added, perceiving
Nizza--"what is this page doing here?"

"Do not concern yourself about him but attend to me," replied Leonard.
"I am about to drive away those persons from the door. You must lower me
down in the basket attached to the pulley."

"And will you dare to engage them?" asked Blaize, peeping out at the
shutter. "They are armed. As I live, one is Major Pillichody, the rascal
who dared to make love to Patience. I have half a mind to go down with
you, and give him a sound drubbing."

"You shall not encounter this danger for me," interposed Nizza,
endeavouring to stay Leonard, who, having thrust a sword into his
girdle, was about to pass through the window.

"Do not hinder me," replied the apprentice, breaking from her. "Take
hold of the rope, Blaize, and mind it does not run down too quickly."

With this, he got into the basket, and as the porter carefully obeyed
his instructions, he reached the ground in safety. On seeing him,
Pillichody bolted across the street, and flourishing his sword, and
uttering tremendous imprecations, held himself in readiness to beat an
immediate retreat. Not so Parravicin. Instantly assailing the
apprentice, he slightly wounded him in the arm. Seeing how matters
stood, and that victory was pretty certain to declare itself for his
patron, Pillichody returned, and, attacking the apprentice, by their
combined efforts, he was speedily disarmed. Pillichody would have passed
his sword through his body, but the knight stayed his hand.

"The fool has placed himself in our power," he said, "and he shall pay
for his temerity; nevertheless, I will spare his life provided he assist
us to get into the house, or will deliver up Nizza Macascree."

"I will do neither," replied Leonard, fiercely.

Parravicin raised his sword, and was about to strike, when, at the
moment, the basket was again quickly lowered to the ground. It bore
Nizza Macascree, who, rushing between them, arrested the stroke.

"Oh! why have you done this?" cried Leonard, in a tone of reproach.

"I will tell you why," rejoined Parravicin, triumphantly; "because she
saw you were unable to defend her, and, like a true woman, surrendered
herself to the victor. Take care of him, Pillichody, while I secure the
girl. Spit him, if he attempts to stir."

And twining his arms round Nizza, notwithstanding her shrieks and
resistance, he bore her away. Infuriated by the sight, Leonard Holt
threw himself upon Pillichody, and a desperate struggle took place
between them, which terminated this time successfully for the
apprentice. Wresting his long rapier from the bully, Leonard rushed
after Parravicin, and reached the end of Wood-street, just in time to
see him spring into a coach, and drive off with his prize. Speeding
after them along Blowbladder-street, and Middle-row, as Newgate-street
was then termed, the apprentice shouted to the coachman to stop, but no
attention being paid to his vociferations, and finding pursuit
unavailing, he came to a halt. He then more slowly retraced his steps,
and on arriving at the grocer's residence, found the basket drawn up.
Almost afraid to call out, he at length mustered courage enough to shout
to Blaize to lower it, and was answered by Mr. Bloundel, who, putting
his head through the window, demanded in a stern tone why he had left
the house?

Leonard briefly explained.

"I deeply regret your imprudence," replied his master; "because I can
now no more admit you. It is my fixed determination, as you well know,
not to suffer any member of my family who may quit my house, to enter it
again."

"I shall not attempt to remonstrate with you, sir," replied Leonard.
"All I pray of you is to allow me to occupy this hutch, and to act as
your porter."

"Willingly," rejoined Mr. Bloundel; "and as you have had the plague, you
will run no risk of infection. You shall know all that passes within
doors; and I only lament that you should have banished yourself from the
asylum which I hoped to afford you."

After some further conversation between them, a bundle was lowered by
the grocer, containing a change of clothes and a couple of blankets. On
receiving these, Leonard retired to the hutch, and tying a handkerchief
round his wounded arm, wrapped himself in a night trail, and stretching
himself on the ground, in spite of his anxiety, soon sank asleep. He
awoke about four o'clock in the morning, with a painful consciousness of
what had taken place during the night. It was just beginning to grow
light, and he walked across the street to gaze at the house from which
he was exiled. Its melancholy, uninhabited look did not serve to cheer
him. It seemed totally altered since he knew it first. The sign, which
then invited the passers-by to enter the shop and deal with its honest
owner, now appeared no longer significant, unless--and it will be
remembered it was the Noah's Ark--it could be supposed to have reference
to those shut up within. The apprentice looked at the habitation with
misgiving, and, instead of regarding it as a sanctuary from the
pestilence, could not help picturing it as a living tomb. The last
conversation he had had with Amabel also arose forcibly to his
recollection, and the little likelihood there appeared of seeing her
again gave him acute agony. Oppressed by this painful idea, and unable
to exclude from his thoughts the unhappy situation of Nizza Macascree,
he bent his steps, scarcely knowing whither he was going, towards Saint
Paul's.

Having passed so much of his time of late in the cathedral, Leonard
began to regard it as a sort of home, and it now appeared like a place
of refuge to him. Proceeding to the great western entrance, he seated
himself on one of the large blocks of stone left there by the masons
occupied in repairing the exterior of the fane. His eye rested upon the
mighty edifice before him, and the clear sparkling light revealed
numberless points of architectural grandeur and beauty which he had
never before noticed. The enormous buttresses and lofty pinnacles of the
central tower were tinged with the beams of the rising sun, and glowed
as if built of porphyry. While gazing at the summit of this tower, and
calling to mind the magnificent view he had recently witnessed from it
at the same hour, if a wish could have transported him thither at that
moment, he would have enjoyed it again. But as this could not be, he
tried to summon before his mental vision the whole glorious
prospect--the broad and shining river, with its moving or motionless
craft--the gardens, the noble mansions, the warehouses, and mighty
wharfs on its banks--London Bridge, with its enormous pile of
habitations--the old and picturesque city, with its innumerable towers,
and spires, and girdle of grey walls--the green fields and winding lanes
leading to the lovely hills around it--all these objects arose obedient
to his fancy, and came arrayed in colouring as fresh as that wherein
they had before appeared to him. While thus occupied, his gaze remained
riveted on the summit of the central tower, and he fancied he perceived
some one leaning over the balustrade; but as little beyond the upper
part of the figure could be discerned, and as it appeared perfectly
motionless, he could not be quite sure that his eyes did not deceive
him. Having gazed at the object for some minutes, during which it
maintained the same attitude, he continued his survey of the pile, and
became so excited by the sublime emotions inspired by the contemplation,
as to be insensible to aught else.

After a while he arose, and was about to proceed towards the portico,
when, chancing to look at the top of the tower, he remarked that the
figure had disappeared, and while wondering who it could be, he
perceived a person emerge from one of the tall windows in the lower part
of the tower. It was Solomon Eagle, and he no longer wondered at what he
had seen. The enthusiast was without his brazier, but carried a long
stout staff. He ran along the pointed roof of the nave with
inconceivable swiftness, till, reaching the vast stone cross, upwards of
twelve feet in height, ornamenting the western extremity, he climbed its
base, and clasping the transverse bar of the sacred symbol of his faith
with his left arm, extended his staff with his right, and described a
circle, as if pointing out the walls of the city. He then raised his
staff towards heaven to invoke its vengeance, and anon pointed it
menacingly downwards. After this he broke into loud denunciations; but
though the apprentice could not hear the words, he gathered their
purport from his gestures.

By this time a few masons had assembled, and producing their implements,
commenced working at the blocks of stone. Glancing at the enthusiast,
one of them observed with a smile to his companion, "There is Solomon
Eagle pronouncing his morning curse upon the city. I wonder whether the
judgments he utters against it will come to pass."

"Assuredly, Phil Gatford," replied the other mason, gravely; "and I look
upon all the work we are now doing as labour thrown away. Was he not
right about the plague? Did he not foretell the devouring scourge by
which we are visited? And he will be right also about the fire. Since he
has doomed it, this cathedral will be consumed by flames, and one stone
will not be left standing on another."

"It is strange, Ned Turgis," observed Gatford, "that, though Solomon
Eagle may always be seen at daybreak at the top of the tower or on the
roof of the cathedral--sometimes at one point and sometimes at
another--no one can tell where he hides himself at other times. He no
longer roams the streets at night, but you may remember when the
officers of justice were in search of him, to give evidence against
Mother Malmayns and Chowles, he was not to be found."

"I remember it," replied Turgis; "but I have no doubt he was hidden in
some out-of-the-way corner of the cathedral--perhaps among the immense
wooden beams of the clerestory."

"Or in some of the secret passages or cells contrived in the thickness
of the walls," rejoined the first speaker. "I say, Ned Turgis, if the
plague increases, as there is every likelihood it will, Solomon Eagle
will be the only preacher left in Saint Paul's. Neither deans, prebends,
minor-canons, nor vicars will attend. As it is, they have almost
abandoned it."

"Shame on them!" exclaimed Leonard Holt, who, being much interested in
the conversation of the masons, had silently approached them. "At this
season, more than ever, they are bound to attend to their duty."

"Why, so I think," rejoined Gatford; "but I suppose they consider
self-preservation their first duty. They aver that all assemblages,
whether called together for religious purposes or not, are dangerous,
and likely to extend the pestilence."

"And yet crowds are permitted to assemble for purposes of amusement, if
not for worship, in those holy walls," returned Leonard.

"Not so," replied Gatford. "Very few persons now come there, and none
for amusement. Paul's Walk is completely deserted. The shops and stalls
have been removed, and the pillars to which they were attached are
restored to their former appearance."

"I am glad to hear it," rejoined Leonard. "I would far rather the sacred
edifice were altogether abandoned than be what it has been of late--a
den of thieves."

"It was a stable and a magazine of arms in the time of the
Commonwealth," remarked Gatford.

"And if Solomon Eagle's foreboding come to pass, it will be a heap of
ruins in our own time," rejoined Turgis. "But I see the prophet of ill
has quitted his post, and retired to his hiding-place."

Looking up as this was said, Leonard saw that the enthusiast had
disappeared. At this moment the great door of the cathedral was thrown
open, and, quitting the masons, he ascended the broad steps under the
portico, and entered the fane, where he found that the information he
had received was correct, and that the stalls and other disfigurements
to the pillars had been removed. After pacing the solitary aisles for
some time, he made inquiries from the verger concerning Solomon Eagle.

"I know nothing about him," replied the man, reluctantly. "I believe he
always appears at daybreak on some part of the roof, but I am as
ignorant as yourself where he hides himself. The door of the winding
staircase leading to the central tower is open. You can ascend it, and
search for him, if you think proper."

Acting upon the suggestion, Leonard mounted to the belfry, and from
thence to the summit of the tower. Having indulged himself with a brief
survey of the glorious view around, he descended, and glanced into every
cell and chamber as he passed, in the hopes of meeting with the
enthusiast, but he was disappointed. At length, as he got about half-way
down, he felt his arm forcibly grasped, and, instantly conjecturing who
it was, offered no resistance. Without uttering a word, the person who
had seized him dragged him up a few steps, pushed aside a secret door,
which closed behind them with a hollow clangour, and leading him along a
dark narrow passage, opened another door, and they emerged upon the
roof. He then found that his suspicion was correct, and that his
mysterious guide was no other than Solomon Eagle.

"I am glad to find you have recovered from the pestilence," said the
enthusiast, regarding him with a friendly glance; "it proves you are
favoured by Heaven. I saw you in the open space before the cathedral
this morning, and instantly recognised you. I was in the belfry when you
descended, but you did not perceive me, and I wished to be certain you
were alone before I discovered myself."

"You have ceased to roam the streets at night, and rouse the slumbering
citizens to repentance?" asked Leonard.

"For the present I have," returned Solomon Eagle. "But I shall appear
again when I am required. But you shall now learn why I have brought you
hither. Look along those streets," he added, pointing to the
thoroughfares opening in different directions. "What see you?"

"I see men piling heaps of wood and coals at certain distances, as if
they were preparing bonfires," replied Leonard. "And yet it cannot be.
This is no season for rejoicing."

"It has been supposed that the lighting of many thousand fires at once
will purify the air," replied Solomon Eagle; "and therefore the Lord
Mayor has given orders that heaps of fuel shall be placed before every
house in every street in the city, and that all these heaps shall be
kindled at a certain hour. But it will be of no avail. The weather is
now fine and settled, and the sky cloudless. But the offended Deity will
cause the heaviest rain to descend, and extinguish their fires. No--the
way to avert the pestilence is not by fire, but by prayer and penitence,
by humiliation and fasting. Let this sinful people put on sackcloth and
ashes. Let them beseech God, by constant prayer, to forgive them, and
they may prevail, but not otherwise."

"And when are these fires to be lighted?" asked the apprentice.

"To-night, at midnight," replied Solomon Eagle.

He then took Leonard by the hand, and led him back the same way he had
brought him. On reaching the spiral staircase, he said, "If you desire
to behold a sight, such as a man has seldom witnessed, ascend to the
summit of this tower an hour after midnight, when all these fires are
lighted. A small door on the left of the northern entrance shall be left
open. It will conduct you to the back of the choir, and you must then
find your way hither as well as you can."

Murmuring his thanks, Leonard hurried down the spiral staircase, and
quitting the cathedral, proceeded in the direction of Wood-street.
Preparations were everywhere making for carrying the Lord Mayor's orders
into effect; and such was the beneficial result anticipated, that a
general liveliness prevailed, on reaching his master's residence, he
found him at the shutter, curious to know what was going forward; and
having informed him, the grocer immediately threw him down money to
procure wood and coal.

"I have but little faith in the experiment," he said, "but the Lord
Mayor's injunctions must be obeyed."

With the help of Dallison, who had now arrived, Leonard Holt soon
procured a large heap of fuel, and placed it in the middle of the
street. The day was passed in executing other commissions for the
grocer, and he took his meals in the hutch with the porter. Time
appeared to pass with unusual slowness, and not he alone, but anxious
thousands, awaited the signal to kindle their fires. The night was
profoundly dark and sultry, and Leonard could not help thinking that the
enthusiast's prediction would be verified, and that rain would fall. But
these gloomy anticipations vanished as the hour of midnight was tolled
forth by the neighbouring clocks of Saint Michael's and Saint Alban's.
Scarcely had the strokes died away, when Leonard seized a light and set
fire to the pile. Ten thousand other piles were kindled at the same
moment, and in an instant the pitchy darkness was converted into light
as bright as that of noonday.

Anxious to behold this prodigious illumination at its best, Leonard Holt
committed the replenishing of the pile and the custody of the house to
Dallison, and hastened to Saint Paul's. A great fire was burning at each
angle of the cathedral, but without pausing to notice the effect of the
flames upon the walls of the building, he passed through the door to
which he had been directed, and hastening to the spiral staircase beyond
the choir, ascended it with swift steps. He did not pause till he
reached the summit of the tower, and there, indeed, a wondrous spectacle
awaited him. The whole city seemed on fire, and girded with a flaming
belt--for piles were lighted at certain distances along the whole line
of walls. The groups of dark figures collected round the fires added to
their picturesque effect; and the course of every street could be traced
by the reflection of the flames on the walls and gables of the houses.
London Bridge was discernible from the fires burning upon it--and even
upon the river braziers were lighted on all the larger craft, which cast
a ruddy glow upon the stream.

After gazing at this extraordinary sight for some time, Leonard began to
descend. As yet he had seen nothing of Solomon Eagle, and searching for
him in vain in the belfry, he quitted the cathedral. From a knot of
persons gathered round one of the fires he learnt that the enthusiast
was addressing the crowd at the west side of the building, and
proceeding thither he perceived him standing on the edge of the
balustrade of the south-western tower, surmounting the little church of
Saint Gregory. His brazier was placed on one of the buttresses, and
threw its light on the mighty central tower of the fabric, and on a
large clock-face immediately beneath. Solomon Eagle was evidently
denouncing the city, but his words were lost in the distance. As he
proceeded, a loud clap of thunder pealed overhead.

"It comes--it comes!" cried the enthusiast, in a voice that could be
distinctly heard in the death-like stillness that followed the thunder.
"The wrath of Heaven is at hand."

As he spoke, a bright flash cut the air, and a bolt struck down, one of
the pinnacles of the great tower. Flash after flash followed in quick
succession, and the enthusiast, who seemed wrapped in flame, extended
his arms towards Heaven, as if beseeching a further display of its
vengeance. Suddenly the lightning ceased to flash and the thunder to
roll. A few heavy drops of rain fell. These were succeeded by a deluging
shower of such violence, that in less than a quarter of an hour every
fire within the city was extinguished, and all was darkness and despair.

The deepest gloom and despondency prevailed that night throughout
London. The sudden storm was regarded as a manifestation of the
displeasure of Heaven, and as an intimation that the arrows of its wrath
were not to be turned aside by any human efforts. So impressed were all
with this feeling, that when, in less than half an hour, the rain
entirely ceased, the clouds cleared off, and the stars again poured down
their lustre, no one attempted to relight the quenched embers, fearing
to provoke the Divine vengeance. Nor was a monitor wanting to enforce
the awful lesson. Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, ran
through the streets, calling on the inhabitants to take to heart what
had happened, to repent, and prepare for their doom.

"The Lord will not spare you," he cried, as he stationed himself in the
open space before St. Stephen's, Walbrook. "He will visit your sins upon
you. Pray, therefore, that ye may not be destroyed, both body and soul.
Little time is allowed you for repentance. Many that hear me shall not
live till tomorrow; few shall survive the year!"

"Thou, thyself, shalt not survive the night, false prophet," cried a
voice from a neighbouring window. And immediately afterwards the barrel
of a gun was thrust forth and a shot fired at the enthusiast. But though
Solomon Eagle never altered his position, he was wholly uninjured--the
ball striking a bystander, who fell to the ground mortally wounded.

"You have shot your own son, Mr. Westwood," cried one of the spectators,
rushing up to the fallen man. "Who will henceforth doubt that Solomon
Eagle is under the care of a special providence?"

"Not I," replied another spectator. "I shall never disregard his words
in future."

Setting down his brazier, the enthusiast bent over the dead man--for
dead he was--and noted the placid smile upon his features. By this time
the unfortunate father had joined the group, and, on seeing the body of
his son, wrung his hands in a pitiable manner, and gave utterance to the
wildest expression of despair. No one attempted to seize him, till at
length Solomon Eagle, rising from his kneeling posture, laid his hand
upon his arm, and regarding him sternly, said, "What wrong have I done
you, that you should seek to slay me?"

"What wrong?" rejoined Westwood--"such wrong as can never be repaired.
Your fearful prophecies and denunciations so terrified my daughter, that
she died distracted. My brokenhearted wife was not long in following
her; and now you have made me the murderer of my son. Complete the
tragedy, and take my life."

"I have no desire to do so," replied Solomon Eagle, in a tone of
commiseration. "My wish is to save your soul, and the souls of all who
listen to me. I wonder not that your anger was at first stirred against
me; but if your heart had been properly directed, indignation would have
soon given way to better feelings. My mission is not to terrify, but to
warn. Why will ye thus continue impenitent when ye are spoken to, not by
my voice alone, but by a thousand others?--by the thunder--by the
rain--by the pestilence!--and ye shall be spoken to, if ye continue
senseless, by fire and by famine. Look at these quenched embers--at
these flooded streets--they are types of your vain struggle with a
superior power. Now, mark me what you must do to free the city from
contagion. You must utterly and for ever abandon your evil courses. You
must pray incessantly for remission of your sins. You must resign
yourselves without repining to such chastisement as you have provoked,
and must put your whole trust and confidence in God. Do this, and do it
heartily; it is possible that His wrath may be averted."

"I feel the force of your words," faltered Westwood--"would I had felt
it sooner!"

"Repentance never comes too late," rejoined the enthusiast. "Let this be
an example to you all."

And snatching up his brazier, he continued his course at the same
lightning speed as before. The unfortunate father was taken into his own
dwelling, whither likewise the body of his son was conveyed. A strict
watch was kept over him during the night, and in the morning he was
removed to Newgate, where he perished, in less than a week, of the
distemper.

The aspect of the streets on the following day was deplorable enough.
Not that the weather was unfavourable. On the contrary, it was bright
and sunny, while the heated atmosphere, cooled, by the showers, felt no
longer oppressive. But the sight of the half-burnt fires struck a chill
into every bosom, and it was not until the heaps were removed, that the
more timorous ventured forth at all. The result, too, of the experiment
was singularly unfortunate. Whether it was from the extraordinary heat
occasioned by the lighting of so many fires, or that the smoke did not
ascend, and so kept down the pestilential effluvia, or that the number
of persons who met together spread the contagion, certain it was that
the pestilence was more widely extended than before, and the mortality
fearfully increased.

On the commencement of the storm, Leonard Holt hurried back to
Wood-street, and reached his master's dwelling just as the rain began to
descend in torrents. Mr. Bloundel was at the window, and a few words
only passed between him and the apprentice when the latter was compelled
to take refuge in the hutch. Here he found Dallison the watchman, and
they listened in awe-struck silence to the heavy showers, and to the
hissing of the blazing embers in their struggle against the hostile
element. By-and-by the latter sound ceased. Not a light could be seen
throughout the whole length of the street, nor was there any red
reflection of the innumerable fires as heretofore in the sky. It was
evident all were extinguished; and the pitiless pelting of the rain, the
roar of the water-spouts, and the rush of the over-filled kennels, now
converted into rivulets, could alone be heard After awhile the storm
cleared off, and Leonard and his companion issued from their retreat,
and gazed in silence at the drenched heap before them. While thus
occupied, the window above them opened, and the grocer appeared at it.

"This is, indeed, a sad and striking lesson," he said, "and I hope will
not be lost upon those who have witnessed it. It shows the utter
impotency of a struggle against the Divine will, and that when a man
relies upon himself for preservation, he depends upon a broken reed. If
I did not place myself under Heaven's protection, I should be sure that
all my own precautions were unavailing. I am now about to call up my
family to prayer. You can join us in our supplications, and I trust they
will not be unheard."

Closing the window, the grocer retired, and Leonard returned to the
hutch, where he fell upon his knees, and as soon as he supposed the
family were gathered together, commenced his own prayers. He pictured
the whole group assembled--the fervour of the grocer excited to an
unwonted pitch by what had just occurred--the earnest countenances of
his wife and the younger children--and the exalted looks of Amabel. He
could not see her--neither could he hear her voice--but he fancied how
she looked, and in what terms she prayed--and it was no slight
satisfaction to him to think that his own voice ascended to Heaven
coupled with hers.

On quitting the hutch, he found Dallison conversing with Doctor Hodges.
The physician expressed great surprise at seeing him, and inquired how
he came to have left his master's house. Leonard related all that had
happened, and besought his assistance in Nizza's behalf.

"I will do all I can for her," replied Hodges, "for I feel greatly
interested about her. But who is this Sir Paul Parravicin? I never heard
of him."

"I know nothing more of him than what I have told you, sir," replied
Leonard. "He is a friend of the Earl of Rochester."

"It must be a feigned name," rejoined Hodges; "but I will speedily find
him out. You must lodge at my house tonight. It will be better for you
than sleeping in that damp shed. But, first, I must have a word or two
with your master. I have been abroad all night, and came hither to
ascertain what he thought of this plan of the fires, and what he had
done. How do you give the signal to him?"

"There is a cord within the hutch by which you can sound a bell within
his chamber," returned Leonard; "I will ring it."

Accordingly, he did so, and the summons was almost instantly answered by
the grocer. A kindly greeting passed between the latter and Hodges, who
inquired whether all was going on satisfactorily within, and whether
anything could be done for the family.

"I would not have disturbed you at this unseasonable hour," he said,
"but chancing to be in your neighbourhood, and thinking it likely you
would be on the watch, I called to have a word with you. Though I could
not foresee what would happen, I entirely disapproved of these fires as
likely to increase rather than check the pestilence."

"The hand of Heaven has extinguished them because they were lighted in
opposition to its decrees," replied Bloundel; "but you have asked me
whether all is going on well within. I should answer readily in the
affirmative, but that my wife expresses much anxiety respecting Amabel.
We have no longer any apprehension of misconduct. She is all we could
desire--serious and devout. But we have fears for her health. The
confinement may be too much for her. What would you recommend?"

"I must see her to be able to speak confidently," replied Hodges.

"I know not how that can be accomplished, unless you choose to ascend by
a basket attached to the pulley," replied the grocer, with some
hesitation, "and it is against my plan to admit you."

"But your daughter's life, my good friend," rejoined Hodges; "think of
that. If I choose to risk life and limb to visit her, you may surely
risk the chance of contagion to admit me. But you need have no fear.
Sprinkle your room with spirits of sulphur, and place a phial of vinegar
so that I can use it on my first entrance into the house, and I will
answer for the safety of your family."

These preparations made, Mr. Bloundel lowered the basket, into which
Hodges got, and grasping the rope, not without some misgiving on his
part, he was drawn up. Leonard witnessed his ascent with a beating
heart, and could scarcely repress a feeling of envy when he saw him pass
through the window, and knew that he would soon be in the presence of
Amabel. But this feeling quickly changed into one of deep anxiety
concerning her. Her father's account of her had increased the uneasiness
he previously felt, and he was as anxious to know the doctor's opinion
of her, as if his own fate had depended upon it. He was kept in this
painful state of suspense for nearly an hour, when voices were heard at
the window, and presently afterwards Hodges was carefully let down.
Bidding the grocer farewell, he desired Leonard to follow him, and led
the way towards Cheapside. They proceeded a short distance in silence,
when the latter ventured to remark, "You say nothing about Amabel, sir?
I fear you found her seriously indisposed."

"Do not question me about her just now," rejoined the doctor, in a
subdued emotion. "I would rather not discuss the subject."

Nothing more was said; for though the apprentice would willingly have
continued the conversation, his companion's evident disinclination to
pursue it compelled him to desist. In this way, they reached the
doctor's residence, where Leonard was immediately shown to a comfortable
bed.

It was late when he awoke next day, and as the doctor was gone forth, he
partook of a plentiful breakfast which was placed before him, and
repaired to Wood-street, but his master having no commissions for him to
execute, he went back again. By this time, Doctor Hodges had returned,
and calling him into his library told him he wished to speak with him.

"You were right last night," he said, "in construing my silence into
alarm for Amabel. In truth, I fear she is rapidly sinking into a
decline, and nothing will arrest the progress of the insidious disease
but instant removal to the country. To this she will not consent,
neither do I know how it could be accomplished. It is pitiable to see so
lovely a creature dying, as I fear she is, of a broken heart."

Leonard covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud.

"We have not yet spoken of Nizza Macascree," said Hodges, after a pause,
tapping him kindly on the shoulder. "I think I have discovered a trace
of her."

"I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard, rousing himself. "She is
another victim of these profligates. But I will be revenged upon them
all."

"I have before enjoined you to restrain your indignation, just though it
be," returned Hodges. "I have not yet found out whither she has been
taken. But I have a clue which, unless I am mistaken, will lead me to
it. But I must now dismiss you, I have other affairs to attend to, and
must give a dangerous and difficult case, on which I have been
consulted, undisturbed consideration. Make my house your home as long as
you think proper."

Warmly thanking the doctor, Leonard then withdrew. Shortly after this,
he walked forth, and ascertaining that he was not required by his
master, determined to satisfy himself by actual observation of the
extent of the ravages of the plague.

With this view, he shaped his course along Lad-lane, and traversing
Cateaton-street, entered Lothbury. The number of houses which he here
found closed, with red crosses on the doors, and the fatal inscription
above them, convinced him that the deplorable accounts he had heard were
not exaggerated. In passing some of these habitations, he saw such
ghastly faces at the windows, and heard such lamentable cries, that he
was glad to hurry on and get out of sight and hearing. In
Throgmorton-street, nearly opposite Drapers' Hall, a poor wretch
suddenly opened a casement, and before his attendants could force him
back, threw himself from a great height to the ground, and broke his
neck. Another incident, of an equally distressing nature, occurred. A
young and richly-dressed young man issued from a tavern in Broad-street,
and with a wild and inflamed countenance, staggered along. He addressed
some insulting language to Leonard, but the latter, who desired no
quarrel, disregarded his remarks, and let him pass. The next person
encountered by the drunken man was a young female. Suddenly catching her
in his arms, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips: and then, with a
frightful laugh, shouted, "I have given you the plague! Look here!" and
tearing aside the collar of his shirt, he exhibited a large tumour. The
young woman uttered a shriek of terror and fainted, while her ruthless
assailant took to his heels, and running as long as his strength lasted,
fell down, and was taken to the pest-house, where he was joined that
same night by his victim. And this was by no means an uncommon
occurrence. The distemper acted differently on different temperaments.
Some it inflamed to an ungovernable pitch of madness, others it reduced
to the depths of despair, while in many cases it brought out and
aggravated the worst parts of the character. Wives conveyed the
infection intentionally to their husbands, husbands to their wives,
parents to their children, lovers to the objects of their affection,
while, as in the case above mentioned, many persons ran about like rabid
hounds, striving to communicate it to all they met. Greatly shocked at
what had occurred, and yet not altogether surprised at it, for his mind
had become familiarized with horrors, Leonard struck down Finch-lane,
and proceeded towards Cornhill. On the way, he noticed two dead bodies
lying at the mouth of a small alley, and hastening past, was stopped at
the entrance to Cornhill by a butcher's apprentice, who was wheeling away
the body of an old man, who had just died while purchasing meat at a
stall at Stock's Market. Filled with unutterable loathing at this
miserable spectacle, Leonard was fain to procure a glass of canary to
recruit his spirits.

Accordingly he proceeded to the Globe Tavern at the corner of
Birchin-lane. As he entered the house, a lively strain of music caught
his ear, and glancing in the direction of the sound, he found it
proceeded from the blind piper, Mike Macascree, who was playing to some
half-dozen roystering youths. Bell lay at her master's feet; and as
Leonard approached the party, she pricked up her ears, and being called
by name, instantly sprang towards him, and manifested the strongest
delight. The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward
but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass.

"Don't drink any more, Mike," said Leonard, "but step aside with me.
I've something to say to you--something about your daughter."

"My daughter!" exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful
voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids.
"I don't want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead. She
has deserted me, and disgraced herself."

"You are mistaken," rejoined Leonard; "and if you will come with me, I
will explain the truth to you."

"I will listen to no explanation," rejoined the piper, furiously, "she
has given me pain enough already. I'm engaged with this jovial company.
Fill my glass, my masters--there, fill it again," he added, draining it
eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought. "There, now you
shall have such a tune, as was never listened to by mortal ears."

A loud laugh from the young men followed this proposition, and the piper
played away so furiously, that it added to their merriment. Touched with
compassion, Leonard walked aside, hoping, when the party broke up, to be
able to have a word with the poor man. But the piper's excitement
increased. He played faster and drank harder, until it was evident he
was no longer in a condition to speak rationally. Leonard, therefore,
addressed himself to the drawer, and desired him to look after the
piper, engaging to return before midnight to see how he went on. The
drawer promising compliance, Leonard departed; and not feeling disposed
to continue his walk, returned to Wood-street.

Nothing particular occurred during the evening. Leonard did not see
Doctor Hodges, who was engaged in his professional duties; and after
keeping watch before the grocer's till nearly midnight, he again
retraced his steps to the Globe. The drawer was at the door, and about
to close the house.

"You will be sorry to learn the fate of the poor piper," he said.

"Why, what has happened to him?" cried Leonard.

"He is dead of the plague," was the reply.

"What, so suddenly!" exclaimed the apprentice. "You are jesting with
me."

"Alas! it is no jest," rejoined the drawer, in a tone that convinced the
apprentice of his sincerity. "His entertainers quitted him about two
hours ago, and in spite of my efforts to detain him, he left the house,
and sat down on those steps. Concluding he would fall asleep, I did not
disturb him, and his dog kept careful watch over him. I forgot all about
him till a short time ago, when hearing the pest-cart pass, I went
forth, and learnt that the drivers having found him dead, as they
supposed, of the pestilence, had placed their forks under his belt, and
thrown him upon the other dead bodies."

"And where is the dog?" cried Leonard.

"She would not quit her master," replied the drawer, "so the men threw
her into the cart with him, saying, they would bury her in the
plague-pit, as all dogs were ordered to be destroyed."

"This must be prevented," cried Leonard. "Which way did the dead-cart
go?"

"Towards Moorgate," replied the drawer.

Leonard heard no more; but dashing through a narrow passage opposite the
Conduit, passed Bartholomew-lane, and traversing Lothbury, soon reached
Coleman-street and the old city gate, to which he had been directed.
Here he learnt that the dead-cart had passed through it about five
minutes before, and he hurried on towards Finsbury Fields. He had not
proceeded far when he heard a sound as of a pipe at a distance,
furiously played, and accompanied by the barking of a dog. These sounds
were followed by cries of alarm, and he presently perceived two persons
running towards him, with a swiftness which only could be occasioned by
terror. One of them carried a lantern, and grasping his arm, the
apprentice detained him.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"The devil's the matter," replied the man--"the piper's ghost has
appeared in that cart, and is playing his old tunes again."

"Ay, it's either his spirit, or he is come to life again," observed the
other man, stopping likewise. "I tossed him into the cart myself, and
will swear he was dead enough then."

"You have committed a dreadful mistake," cried Leonard. "You have tossed
a living man into the cart instead of a dead one. Do you not hear those
sounds?" And as he spoke, the notes of the pipe swelled to a louder
strain than ever.

"I tell you it is the devil--or a ghost," replied the driver; "I will
stay here no longer."

"Lend me your lantern, and I will go to the cart," rejoined Leonard.

"Take it," replied the man; "but I caution you to stay where you are.
You may receive a shock you will never survive."

Paying no attention to what was said, Leonard ran towards the cart, and
found the piper seated upon a pile of dead bodies, most of them stripped
of their covering, with Bell by his side, and playing away at a
prodigious rate.


III.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

The condition of the prisons at this season was really frightful. In
Newgate, in particular, where the distemper broke out at the beginning
of June, it raged with such violence that in less than a week, more than
half the prisoners were swept off, and it appeared probable, that,
unless its fury abated, not a soul would be left alive within it. At all
times, this crowded and ill-kept prison was infested by the gaol-fever
and other pestilential disorders, but these were mild in comparison with
the present terrible visitation. The atmosphere was noisome and
malignant; the wards were never cleansed; and many poor wretches, who
died in their cells, were left there till the attendants on the
dead-cart chose to drag them forth. No restraint being placed upon the
sick, and the rules of the prison allowing them the free use of any
strong liquors they could purchase, the scenes that occurred were too
dreadful and revolting for description, and could only be paralleled by
the orgies of a pandemonium. Many reckless beings, conscious that they
were attacked by a fatal disorder, drank as long as they could raise
the' cup to their lips, and after committing the wildest and most
shocking extravagances, died in a state of frenzy.

Newgate became thus, as it were, the very focus of infection, where the
plague assumed its worst aspect, and where its victims perished far more
expeditiously than elsewhere. Two of the turnkeys had already died of
the distemper, and such was the alarm entertained, that no persons could
be found to supply their places. To penetrate the recesses of the
prison, was almost to insure destruction, and none but the attendants of
the dead-cart and the nurses attempted it. Among the latter was Judith.
Employed as a nurse on the first outburst of the plague, she willingly
and fearlessly undertook the office. The worse the disease became the
better pleased she appeared; and she was so utterly without
apprehension, that when no one would approach the cell where some
wretched sufferer lay expiring, she unhesitatingly entered it. But it
was not to render aid, but to plunder, that she thus exercised her
functions. She administered no medicine, dressed no tumours, and did not
contribute in the slightest degree to the comfort of the miserable
wretches committed to her charge. All she desired was to obtain whatever
valuables they possessed, or to wring from them any secret that might
afterwards be turned to account. Foreseeing that Newgate must ere long
be depopulated, and having no fears for herself, she knew that she must
then be liberated, and be able once more to renew her mischievous
practices upon mankind. Her marvellous preservation throughout all the
dangers to which she was exposed seemed almost to warrant the
supposition that she had entered into a compact with the pestilence, to
extend its ravages by every means in her power, on the condition of
being spared herself.

Soon after the outbreak of the plague in Newgate, all the debtors were
liberated, and if the keepers had had their own way, the common felons
would have been likewise released. But this could not be, and they were
kept to perish as before described. Matters, however, grew so serious,
that it became a question whether the few miserable wretches left alive
ought to be longer detained, and at last the turnkeys refusing to act
any longer, and delivering their keys to the governor, the whole of the
prisoners were set free.

On the night of their liberation, Chowles and Judith proceeded to the
vaults of Saint Faith's, to deposit within them the plunder they had
obtained in the prison. They found them entirely deserted. Neither
verger, sexton, nor any other person, was to be seen, and they took up
their quarters in the crypt. Having brought a basket of provisions and a
few bottles of wine with them, they determined to pass the night in
revelry; and, accordingly, having lighted a fire with the fragments of
old coffins brought from the charnel, they sat down to their meal.
Having done full justice to it, and disposed of the first flask, they
were about to abandon themselves to unrestrained enjoyment, when their
glee was all at once interrupted by a strange and unaccountable noise in
the adjoining church. Chowles, who had just commenced chanting one of
his wild melodies, suddenly stopped, and Judith set down the glass she
had raised to her lips untested. What could it mean? Neither of them
could tell. It seemed like strains of unearthly music, mixed with
shrieks and groans as of tortured spirits, accompanied by peals of such
laughter as might be supposed to proceed, from demons.

"The dead are burst forth from their tombs," cried Chowles, in a
quavering voice, "and are attended by a legion of evil spirits."

"It would seem so," replied Judith, rising. "I should like to behold the
sight. Come with me."

"Not for the world!" rejoined Chowles, shuddering, "and I would
recommend you to stay where you are. You may behold your dead husband
among them."

"Do you think so?" rejoined Judith, halting.

"I am sure of it," cried Chowles, eagerly. "Stay where you are--stay
where you are."

As he spoke, there was another peal of infernal laughter, and the
strains of music grew louder each moment.

"Come what may, I will see what it is," said Judith, emptying her glass,
as if seeking courage from the draught. "Surely," she added, in a
taunting tone, "you will come with me."

"I am afraid of nothing earthly," rejoined Chowles--"but I do not like
to face beings of another world."

"Then I will go alone," rejoined Judith.

"Nay, that shall never be," replied Chowles, tottering after her.

As they opened the door and crossed the charnel, such an extraordinary
combination of sounds burst upon their ears that they again paused, and
looked anxiously at each other. Chowles laid his hand on his companion's
arm, and strove to detain her, but she would not be stayed, and he was
forced to proceed. Setting down the lamp on the stone floor, Judith
passed into the subterranean church, where she beheld a sight that
almost petrified her. In the midst of the nave, which was illumined by a
blue glimmering light, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine,
stood a number of grotesque figures, apparelled in fantastic garbs, and
each attended by a skeleton. Some of the latter grisly shapes were
playing on tambours, others on psalteries, others on rebecs--every
instrument producing the strangest sound imaginable. Viewed through the
massive pillars, beneath that dark and ponderous roof, and by the mystic
light before described, this strange company had a supernatural
appearance, and neither Chowles nor Judith doubted for a moment that
they beheld before them a congregation of phantoms. An irresistible
feeling of curiosity prompted them to advance. On drawing nearer, they
found the assemblage comprehended all ranks of society. There was a pope
in his tiara and pontifical dress; a cardinal in his cap and robes; a
monarch with a sceptre in his hand, and arrayed in the habiliments of
royalty; a crowned queen; a bishop wearing his mitre, and carrying his
crosier; an abbot, likewise in his mitre, and bearing a crosier; a duke
in his robes of state; a grave canon of the church; a knight sheathed in
armour; a judge, an advocate, and a magistrate, all in their robes; a
mendicant friar and a nun; and the list was completed by a physician, an
astrologer, a miser, a merchant, a duchess, a pedler, a soldier, a
gamester, an idiot, a robber, a blind man, and a beggar--each
distinguishable by his apparel.

By-and-by, with a wild and gibbering laugh that chilled the beholders'
blood, one of the tallest and grisliest of the skeletons sprang forward,
and beating his drum, the whole ghostly company formed, two and two,
into a line--a skeleton placing itself on the right of every mortal. In
this order, the fantastic procession marched between the pillars, the
unearthly music playing all the while, and disappeared at the further
extremity of the church. With the last of the group, the mysterious
light vanished, and Chowles and his companion were left in profound
darkness.

"What can it mean?" cried Judith, as soon as she recovered her speech.
"Are they human, or spirits?"

"Human beings don't generally amuse themselves in this way," returned
Chowles. "But hark!--I still hear the music.--They are above--in Saint
Paul's."

"Then I will join them," said Judith. "I am resolved to see the end of
it."

"Don't leave me behind," returned Chowles, following her. "I would
rather keep company with Beelzebub and all his imps than be alone."

Both were too well acquainted with the way to need any light. Ascending
the broad stone steps, they presently emerged into the cathedral, which
they found illumined by the same glimmering light as the lower church,
and they perceived the ghostly assemblage gathered into an immense ring,
and dancing round the tall skeleton, who continued beating his drum, and
uttering a strange gibbering sound, which was echoed by the others. Each
moment the dancers increased the swiftness of their pace, until at last
it grew to a giddy whirl, and then, all at once, with a shriek of
laughter, the whole company fell to the ground.

Chowles and Judith, then, for the first time, understood, from the
confusion that ensued, and the exclamations uttered, that they were no
spirits they had to deal with, but beings of the same mould as
themselves. Accordingly, they approached the party of masquers, for such
they proved, and found on inquiry that they were a party of young
gallants, who, headed by the Earl of Rochester--the representative of
the tall skeleton--had determined to realize the Dance of Death, as once
depicted on the walls of an ancient cloister at the north of the
cathedral, called Pardon-churchyard, on the walls of which, says Stowe,
were "artificially and richly painted the Dance of Macabre, or Dance of
Death, commonly called the Dance of Paul's, the like whereof was painted
about Saint Innocent's, at Paris. The metres, or poesy of this dance,"
proceeds the same authority, "were translated out of Trench into English
by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, and, with the picture of Death leading
all estates, painted about the cloister, at the special request and
expense of Jenkin Carpenter, in the reign of Henry the Sixth."
Pardon-churchyard was pulled down by the Protector Somerset, in the
reign of Edward the Sixth, and the materials employed in the erection of
his own palace in the Strand. It was the discussion of these singular
paintings, and of the designs on the same subject ascribed to Holbein,
that led the Earl of Rochester and his companions to propose the
fantastic spectacle above described. With the disposition which this
reckless nobleman possessed to turn the most solemn and appalling
subjects to jest, he thought no season so fitting for such an
entertainment as the present--just as in our own time the lively
Parisians made the cholera, while raging in their city, the subject of a
carnival pastime. The exhibition witnessed by Chowles and Judith was a
rehearsal of the masque intended to be represented in the cathedral on
the following night.

Again marshalling his band, the Earl of Rochester beat his drum, and
skipping before them, led the way towards the south door of the
cathedral, which was thrown open by an unseen hand, and the procession
glided through it like a troop of spectres. Chowles, whose appearance
was not unlike that of an animated skeleton, was seized with a strange
desire to join in what was going forward, and taking off his doublet,
and baring his bony arms and legs, he followed the others, dancing round
Judith in the same manner that the other skeletons danced round their
partners.

On reaching the Convocation House, a door was opened, and the procession
entered the cloisters; and here Chowles, dragging Judith into the area
between him and the beautiful structure they surrounded, began a dance
of so extraordinary a character that the whole troop collected round to
witness it. Rochester beat his drum, and the other representatives of
mortality who were provided with musical instruments struck up a wild
kind of accompaniment, to which Chowles executed the most grotesque
flourishes. So wildly excited did he become, and such extravagances did
he commit, that even Judith stared aghast at him, and began to think his
wits were fled. Now he whirled round her--now sprang high into the
air--now twined his lean arms round her waist--now peeped over one
shoulder, now over the other--and at last griped her neck so forcibly,
that he might perhaps have strangled her, if she had not broken from
him, and dealt him a severe blow that brought him senseless to the
ground. On recovering, he found himself in the arched entrance of a
large octagonal chamber, lighted at each side by a lofty pointed window
filled with stained glass. Round this chamber ran a wide stone bench,
with a richly-carved back of the same material, on which the masquers
were seated, and opposite the entrance was a raised seat, ordinarily
allotted to the dean, but now occupied by the Earl of Rochester. A
circular oak table stood in the midst of the chamber, covered with
magnificent silver dishes, heaped with the choicest viands, which were
handed to the guests by the earl's servants, all of whom represented
skeletons, and it had a strange effect, to behold these ghastly objects
filling the cups of the revellers, bending obsequiously before some
blooming dame, or crowding round their spectral-looking lord.

At first, Chowles was so confused, that he thought he must have awakened
in another world, but by degrees he called to mind what had occurred,
and ascertained from Judith that he was in the Convocation House.
Getting up, he joined the train of grisly attendants, and acquitted
himself so well that the earl engaged him as performer in the masque. He
was furthermore informed that, in all probability, the king himself,
with many of his favourite nobles, and the chief court beauties, would
be present to witness the spectacle.

The banquet over, word was brought that chairs and coaches were without,
and the company departed, leaving behind only a few attendants, who
remained to put matters in order.

While they were thus occupied, Judith, who had fixed her greedy eyes
upon the plate, observed, in an under-tone, to Chowles, "There will be
fine plunder for us. We must manage to carry off all that plate while
they are engaged in the masque."

"You must do it yourself, then," returned Chowles, in the same
tone--"for I shall have to play a principal part in the entertainment,
and as the king himself will be present, I cannot give up such an
opportunity of distinguishing myself."

"You can have no share in the prize, if you lend no assistance," replied
Judith, with a dissatisfied look.

"Of course not," rejoined Chowles; "on this occasion it is all yours.
The Dance of Death is too much to my taste to be given up."

Perceiving they were noticed, Chowles and Judith then left the
Convocation House, and returned to the vault in Saint Faith's, nor did
they emerge from it until late on the following day.

Some rumour of the masque having gone abroad, towards evening a crowd,
chiefly composed of the most worthless order of society, collected under
the portico at the western entrance, and the great doors being opened by
Chowles, they entered the cathedral. Thus was this sacred building once
more invaded--once again a scene of noise, riot, and confusion--its
vaulted roofs instead of echoing the voice of prayer, or the choral
hymn, resounded with loud laughter, imprecations, and licentious
discourse. This disorder, however, was kept in some bounds by a strong
body of the royal guard, who soon afterwards arrived, and stationing
themselves in parties of three or four at each of the massive columns
flanking the aisles, maintained some show of decorum. Besides these,
there were others of the royal attendants, bearing torches, who walked
from place to place, and compelled all loiterers in dark corners to
proceed to the nave.

A little before midnight, the great doors were again thrown open, and a
large troop of richly-attired personages, all wearing masks, were
admitted. For a short time they paced to and fro between its shafted
pillars gazing at the spectators grouped around, and evidently, from
their jests and laughter, not a little entertained by the scene. As the
clock struck twelve, however, all sounds were hushed, and the courtly
party stationed themselves on the steps leading to the choir. At the
same moment, also, the torches were extinguished, and the whole of the
building buried in profound darkness. Presently after, a sound was heard
of footsteps approaching the nave, but nothing could be discerned.
Expectation was kept on the rack for some minutes, during which many a
stifled cry was heard from those whose courage failed them at this
trying juncture. All at once, a blue light illumined the nave, and
partially revealed the lofty pillars by which it was surrounded. By this
light the whole of the ghostly company could be seen drawn up near the
western door. They were arranged two and two, a skeleton standing as
before on the right of each character. The procession next marched
slowly and silently towards the choir, and drew up at the foot of the
steps, to give the royal party an opportunity of examining them. After
pausing there for a few minutes, Rochester, in the dress of the larger
skeleton, started off, and, beating his drum, was followed by the pope
and his attendant skeleton. This couple having danced together for some
minutes, to the infinite diversion of the spectators, disappeared behind
a pillar, and were succeeded by the monarch and a second skeleton.
These, in their turn, gave way to the cardinal and his companion, and so
on till the whole of the masquers had exhibited themselves, when at a
signal from the earl the party re-appeared, and formed a ring round him.
The dance was executed with great spirit, and elicited tumultuous
applause from all the beholders. The earl now retired, and Chowles took
his place. He was clothed in an elastic dress painted of a leaden and
cadaverous colour, which fitted closely to his fleshless figure, and
defined all his angularities. He carried an hour-glass in one hand and a
dart in the other, and in the course of the dance kept continually
pointing the latter at those who moved around him. His feats of the
previous evening were nothing to his present achievements. His joints
creaked, and his eyes flamed like burning coals. As he continued, his
excitement increased. He bounded higher, and his countenance assumed so
hideous an expression, that those near him recoiled in terror, crying,
"Death himself had broke loose among them." The consternation soon
became general. The masquers fled in dismay, and scampered along the
aisles scarcely knowing whither they were going. Delighted with the
alarm he occasioned, Chowles chased a large party along the northern
aisle, and was pursuing them across the transept upon which it opened,
when he was arrested in his turn by another equally formidable figure,
who suddenly placed himself in his path.

"Hold!" exclaimed Solomon Eagle--for it was the enthusiast--in a voice
of thunder, "it is time this scandalous exhibition should cease. Know
all ye who make a mockery of death, that his power will be speedily and
fearfully approved upon you. Thine not to escape the vengeance of the
Great Being whose temple you have profaned. And you, O king! who have
sanctioned these evil doings by your presence, and who by your own
dissolute life set a pernicious example to all your subjects, know that
your city shall be utterly laid waste, first by plague and then by fire.
Tremble! my warning is as terrible and true as the handwriting on the
wall."

"Who art thou who holdest this language towards me?" demanded Charles.

"I am called Solomon Eagle," replied the enthusiast, "and am charged
with a mission from on high to warn your doomed people of their fate. Be
warned yourself, sire! Your end will be sudden. You will be snatched
away in the midst of your guilty pleasure, and with little time for
repentance. Be warned, I say again."

With this he turned to depart.

"Secure the knave," cried Charles, angrily. "He shall be soundly
scourged for his insolence."

But bursting through the guard, Solomon Eagle ran swiftly up the choir
and disappeared, nor could his pursuers discover any traces of him.

"Strange!" exclaimed the king, when he was told of the enthusiast's
escape. "Let us go to supper. This masque has given me the vapours."

"Pray Heaven it have not given us the plague," observed the fair
Stewart, who stood beside him, taking his arm.

"It is to be hoped not," rejoined Charles; "but, odds fish! it is a most
dismal affair."

"It is so, in more ways than one," replied Rochester, "for I have just
learnt that all my best plate has been carried off from the Convocation
House. I shall only be able to offer your majesty and your fair partner
a sorry supper."


IV.

THE PLAGUE-PIT.

On being made acquainted by Leonard, who helped him out of the
pest-cart, with the danger he had run, the piper uttered a cry of
terror, and swooned away. The buriers, seeing how matters stood, and
that their superstitious fears were altogether groundless, now returned,
and one of them, producing a phial of vinegar, sprinkled the fainting
man with it, and speedily brought him to himself. But though so far
recovered, his terror had by no means abated, and he declared his firm
conviction that he was infected by the pestilence.

"I have been carried towards the plague-pit by mistake," he said. "I
shall soon be conveyed thither in right earnest, and not have the power
of frightening away my conductors on the road."

"Pooh! pooh!" cried one of the buriers, jestingly. "I hope you will
often ride with us, and play us many a merry tune as you go. You shall
always be welcome to a seat in the cart."

"Be of good cheer," added Leonard, "and all will be well. Come with me
to an apothecary's shop, and I will procure a cordial for you, which
shall speedily dispel your qualms."

The piper shook his head, and replied, with a deep groan, that he was
certain all was over with him.

"However, I will not reject your kindness," he added, "though I feel I
am past the help of medicine."

"With this, he whistled to Bell, who was skipping about Leonard, having
recognised him on his first approach, and they proceeded towards the
second postern in London-wall, between Moorgate and Cripplegate; while
the buriers, laughing heartily at the adventure, took their way towards
the plague-pit, and discharged their dreadful load within it. Arrived in
Basinghall-street, and looking round, Leonard soon discovered by the
links at the door, as well as by the crowd collected before it--for day
and night the apothecaries' dwellings were besieged by the sick--the
shop of which he was in search. It was long before they could obtain
admittance, and during this time the piper said he felt himself getting
rapidly worse; but, imagining he was merely labouring under the effect
of fright, Leonard paid little attention to his complaints. The
apothecary, however, no sooner set eyes upon him, than he pronounced him
infected, and, on examination, it proved that the fatal tokens had
already appeared.

"I knew it was so," cried the piper. "Take me to the pest-house--take me
to the pest-house!"

"His desire had better be complied with," observed the apothecary. "He
is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to
do so two hours hence. It is a bad case," he added in an under-tone to
Leonard.

Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing
through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields. Here they paused for
a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking
gleefully.

"Poor Bell!" cried the piper; "what will become of thee when I am gone?"

"If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her," replied
Leonard.

"She is yours," rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "Be
kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress."

"Since you have alluded to your daughter," returned Leonard, "I must
tell you what has become of her. I have not hitherto mentioned the
subject, fearing it might distress you."

"Have no further consideration, but speak out," rejoined the piper. "Be
it what it may, I will bear it like a man."

Leonard then briefly recounted all that had occurred, describing Nizza's
disguise as a page, and her forcible abduction by Parravicin. He was
frequently interrupted by the groans of his hearer, who at last gave
vent to his rage and anguish in words.

"Heaven's direst curse upon her ravisher!" he cried. "May he endure
worse misery than I now endure. She is lost for ever."

"She may yet be preserved," rejoined Leonard. "Doctor Hodges thinks he
has discovered her retreat, and I will not rest till I find her."

"No--no, you will never find her," replied the piper, bitterly; "or if
you do, it will be only to bewail her ruin."

His rage then gave way to such an access of grief, that, letting his
head fall on Leonard's shoulder, he wept aloud.

"There is a secret connected with that poor girl," he said, at length,
controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, "which must now go to the
grave with me. The knowledge of it would only add to her distress."

"You view the matter too unfavourably," replied Leonard; "and if the
secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me. If your
worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall
never be revealed to her."

"On that condition only, I will confide it to you," replied the piper;
"but not now--not now--to-morrow morning, if I am alive."

"It may be out of your power then," returned Leonard, "For your
daughter's sake, I urge you not to delay."

"It is for her sake I am silent," rejoined the piper. "Come along--come
along" he added, hurrying forward. "Are we far from the pest-house? My
strength is failing me."

On arriving at their destination, they were readily admitted to the
asylum; but a slight difficulty arose, which, however, was speedily
obviated. All the couches were filled, but on examining them it was
found that one of the sick persons had just been released from his
sufferings, and the body being removed, the piper was allowed to take
its place. Leonard remained by him for a short time, but, overpowered by
the pestilential effluvia, and the sight of so many miserable objects,
he was compelled to seek the open air. Returning, however, shortly
afterwards, he found the piper in a very perturbed state. On hearing
Leonard's voice he appeared greatly relieved, and, taking his gown from
beneath his pillow, gav