Prayers over, the whole party sat down to their morning repast, after which, the grocer and his eldest son, accompanied by Leonard and Blaize, mounted to the roof of the house, and gazing in the direction of the conflagration, they could plainly distinguish the vast cloud of yellow smoke commingled with flame that marked the scene of its ravages. As the wind blew from this quarter, charged, as has been stated, with a cloud of sparks, many of the fire-drops were dashed in their faces, and compelled them to shade their eyes. The same awful roar which Leonard had heard on the river likewise broke upon their ears, while from all the adjoining streets arose a wild clamour of human voices, the burden of whose cries was "Fire! Fire!" The church bells, which should have been tolling to early devotion, were now loudly ringing the alarm, while their towers were crowded, as were the roofs of most of the houses, with persons gazing towards the scene of devastation. Nothing could be more opposite to the stillness and quiet of a Sabbath morn; and as the grocer listened to the noise and tumult prevailing around him, he could not repress a groan.

"I never thought my ears would be so much offended on this day," he said. "Let us go down. I have seen and heard enough."

They then descended, and Stephen Bloundel, who was greatly alarmed by what he had just witnessed, strongly urged his father to remove immediately. "There are seasons," said the young man, "when even our duty to Heaven becomes a secondary consideration; and I should be sorry if the fruit of your industry were sacrificed to your religious scruples."

"There are no such seasons," replied the grocer, severely; "and I am grieved that a son of mine should think so. If the inhabitants of this sinful city had not broken the Sabbath, and neglected God's commandments, this heavy judgment would not have fallen upon them. I shall neglect no precaution for the personal safety of my family, but I place my worldly goods in the hands of Him from whom I derived them, and to whom I am ready to restore them, whenever it shall please Him to take them."

"I am rebuked, father," replied Stephen, humbly; "and entreat your pardon for having ventured to differ with you. I am now fully sensible of the propriety of your conduct."

"And I have ever acquiesced in your wishes, be they what they may," said Mrs. Bloundel to her husband; "but I confess I am dreadfully frightened. I hope you will remove the first thing to-morrow."

"When midnight has struck, and the Sabbath is past, I shall commence my preparations," replied the grocer. "You must rest content till then." Mrs. Bloundel heaved a sigh, but said no more; and the grocer, retiring to a side-table, opened the Bible, and sat down calmly to its perusal. But though no further remonstrances reached his ears, there was great murmuring in the kitchen on the part of Blaize and Patience.

"Goodness knows what will become of us!" cried the latter. "I expect we shall all be burnt alive, owing to our master's obstinacy. What harm can there be in moving on a Sunday, I should like to know? I'm sure I'm too much hurried and flurried to say my prayers as I ought to do."

"And so am I," replied Blaize. "Mr. Bloundel is a great deal too particular. What a dreadful thing it would be if the house should be burnt down, and all my mother's savings, which were to form a provision for our marriage, lost."

"That would be terrible, indeed," cried Patience, with a look of dismay. "I think the wedding had better take place as soon as the fire is over. It can't last many days if it goes on at this rate."

"You are right," returned Blaize. "I have no objection. I'll speak to my mother at once." And stepping into the scullery, where old Josyna was washing some dishes, he addressed her—"Mother, I'm sadly afraid this great fire will reach us before our master will allow us to move. Hadn't you better let me take care of the money you intended giving me on my marriage with Patience?"

"No, no, myn goed zoon," replied Josyna, shaking her head—"I musd zee you married virsd."

"But I can't be married to-day," cried Blaize—"and there's no time to lose. The fire will be upon us directly."

"I cand help dat," returned his mother. "We musd place our drusd in God."

"There I quite agree with you, mother," replied Blaize; "but we must also take care of ourselves. If you won't give me the money, at least put it in a box to carry off at a moment's notice."

"Don't be afraid, myn zoon," replied Josyna. "I wond forged id."

"I'm sadly afraid you will, though," muttered Blaize, as he walked away. "There's no doing any good with her," he added to Patience. "She's as obstinate as Mr. Bloundel. I should like to see the fire of all things; but I suppose I musn't leave the house."

"Of course not," replied Patience, pettishly; "at such a time it would be highly improper. I forbid that."

"Then I must need submit," groaned Blaize—"I can't even have my own way before marriage."

When the proper time arrived, the grocer, accompanied by all his family and household, except old Josyna, who was left in charge of the house, repaired to the neighbouring church of Saint Alban's, but, finding the doors closed, and that no service was to be performed, he returned home with a sorrowful heart. Soon after this, Leonard took Mr. Bloundel apart, and observed to him, "I have a strong conviction that I could be useful in arresting the progress of the conflagration, and, as I cannot attend church service, I will, with your permission, devote myself to that object. It is my intention to proceed to Whitehall, and, if possible, obtain an audience of the king, and if I succeed in doing so, to lay a plan before him, which I think would prove efficacious."

"I will not ask what the plan is," rejoined the grocer, "because I doubt its success. Neither will I oppose your design, which is praiseworthy. Go, and may it prosper. Return in the evening, for I may need your assistance—perhaps protection."

Leonard then prepared to set forth. Blaize begged hard to accompany him, but was refused. Forcing his way through the host of carts, coaches, drays, and other vehicles thronging the streets, Leonard made the best of his way to Whitehall, where he speedily arrived. A large body of mounted troopers were stationed before the gates of the palace, and a regiment of the foot-guards were drawn up in the court. Drums were beating to arms, and other martial sounds were heard, showing the alarm that was felt. Leonard was stopped at the gate by a sentinel, and refused admittance; and he would in all probability have been turned back, if at that moment the Lords Argentine and Rochester had not come up. On seeing him, the former frowned, and passed quickly on, but the latter halted.

"You seem to be in some difficulty," remarked Rochester. "Can I help you?"

Leonard was about to turn away, but he checked himself. "I will not suffer my resentful feelings to operate injuriously to others," he muttered. "I desire to see the king, my lord," he added, to the earl. "I have a proposal to make to him, which I think would be a means of checking the conflagration."

"Say you so?" cried Rochester. "Come along, then. Heaven grant your plan may prove successful; in which case, I promise you, you shall be nobly rewarded."

"I seek no reward, my lord," replied Leonard. "All I desire is to save the city."

"Well, well," rejoined Rochester, "it will be time enough to refuse his majesty's bounty when offered."

Upon this, he ordered the sentinel to withdraw, and Leonard followed him into the palace. They found the entrance-hall filled with groups of officers and attendants, all conversing together, it was evident from their looks and manner, on the one engrossing topic—the conflagration. Ascending a magnificent staircase, and traversing part of a grand gallery, they entered an ante-room, in which a number of courtiers and. pages—amongst the latter of whom was Chiffinch—were assembled. At the door of the inner chamber stood a couple of ushers, and as the earl approached, it was instantly thrown open. As Leonard, however, who followed close behind his leader, passed Chiffinch, the latter caught hold of his arm and detained him. Hearing the movement, Rochester turned, and said quickly to the page, "Let him pass, he is going with me."

"Old Rowley is in no humour for a jest to-day, my lord," replied Chiffinch, familiarly. "He is more serious than I have ever before seen him, and takes this terrible fire sadly to heart, as well he may. Mr. Secretary Pepys, of the Admiralty, is with him, and is detailing all particulars of the calamity to him, I believe."

"It is in reference to the fire that I have brought this young man with me," returned the earl. "Let him pass, I say. State your plan boldly," he added, as they entered the audience-chamber.

At the further end of the long apartment, on a chair of state, and beneath a canopy, sat Charles. He was evidently much disturbed, and looked eagerly at the new-comers, especially at Leonard, expecting to find him the bearer of some important intelligence. On the right of the king, and near an open window, which, looking towards the river, commanded a view of the fire on the bridge, as well as of part of the burning city, stood the Duke of York. The duke did not appear much concerned at the calamity, but was laughing with Lord Argentine, who stood close beside him. The smile fled from the lips of the latter as he beheld Leonard, and he looked angrily at Rochester, who did not, however, appear to notice his displeasure. On the left of the royal chair was Mr. Pepys, engaged, as Chiffinch had intimated, in detailing to the king the progress of the conflagration; and next to the secretary stood the Earl of Craven,—a handsome, commanding, and martial-looking personage, though somewhat stricken in years. Three other noblemen— namely, the Lords Hollis, Arlington, and Ashley—were likewise present.

"Who have you with you, Rochester?" demanded Charles, as the earl and his companion approached him.

"A young man, my liege, who desires to make known to you a plan for checking this conflagration," replied the earl.

"Ah!" exclaimed the king; "let him accomplish that for us, and he shall ask what he will in return."

"I ventured to promise him as much," observed Rochester.

"Mine is a very simple and a very obvious plan, sire," said Leonard; "but I will engage, on the peril of my life, if you will give me sufficient authority, and means to work withal, to stop the further progress of this fire."

"In what way?" asked Charles, impatiently;—"in what way?"

"By demolishing the houses around the conflagration with gunpowder, so as to form a wide gap between those left and the flames," replied Leonard.

"A short and summary process, truly," replied the king; "but it would occasion great waste of property, and might be attended with other serious consequences."

"Not half so much property will be destroyed as if the slower and seemingly safer course of pulling down the houses is pursued," rejoined Leonard. "That experiment has been tried and failed."

"I am of the young man's opinion," observed the Earl of Craven.

"And I," added Pepys. "Better lose half the city than the whole. As it is, your majesty is not safe in your palace."

"Why, you do not think it can reach Whitehall?" cried the king, rising, and walking to the window. "How say you, brother," he added, to the Duke of York—"shall we act upon this young man's suggestion, and order the wholesale demolition of the houses which he recommends?"

"I would not advise your majesty to do so—at least, not without consideration," answered the duke. "This is a terrible fire, no doubt; but the danger may be greatly exaggerated, and if any ill consequences should result from the proposed scheme, the blame will be entirely laid upon your majesty."

"I care not for that," replied the king, "provided I feel assured it is for the best."

"The plan would do incalculably more mischief than the fire itself," observed Lord Argentine, "and would be met by the most determined opposition on the part of the owners of the habitations condemned to destruction. Whole streets will have to be blown up, and your majesty will easily comprehend the confusion and damage that will ensue."

"Lord Argentine has expressed my sentiments exactly," said the Duke of York.

"There is nothing for it, then, but for your majesty to call for a fiddle, and amuse yourself, like Nero, while your city is burning," remarked Rochester, sarcastically.

"Another such jest, my lord," rejoined the king, sternly, "and it shall cost you your liberty. I will go upon the river instantly, and view the fire myself, and then decide what course shall be adopted."

"There are rumours that incendiaries are abroad, your majesty," remarked Argentine, glancing maliciously at Leonard—"it is not unlikely that he who lighted the fire should know how to extinguish it."

"His lordship says truly," rejoined Leonard. "There are incendiaries abroad, and the chief of them was taken by my hand, and lodged in Newgate, where he lies for examination."

"Ah!" exclaimed the king, eagerly; "did you catch the miscreant in the fact?"

"No, my liege," replied Leonard; "but he came to me a few hours before the outbreak of the fire, intimating that he was in possession of a plot against the city—a design so monstrous, that your majesty would give any reward to the discloser of it. He proposed to reveal this plot to me on certain terms."

"And you accepted them?" cried the king.

"No, my liege," replied Leonard; "I refused them, and would have secured him, but he escaped me at that time. I afterwards discovered him among the spectators near the fire, and caused his arrest."

"And who is this villain?" cried the king.

"I must refer your majesty to Lord Argentine," replied Leonard.

"Do you know anything of the transaction, my lord?" said Charles, appealing to him.

"Not I, your majesty," said Argentine, vainly endeavouring to conceal his anger and confusion. "The knave has spoken falsely."

"He shall rue it, if he has done so," rejoined the monarch. "What has the man you speak of to do with Lord Argentine?" he added to Leonard.

"He is his father," was the reply.

Charles looked at Lord Argentine, and became convinced from the altered expression of his countenance that the truth had been spoken. He, therefore, arose, and motioning him to follow him, led him into the recess of a window, where they remained in conversation for some minutes. While this was passing, the Earl of Rochester observed, in an undertone to Leonard, "You have made a mortal foe of Lord Argentine, but I will protect you."

"I require no other protection than I can afford myself, my lord," rejoined Leonard, coldly.

Shortly after this, Charles stepped forward with a graver aspect than before, and said, "Before proceeding to view this conflagration, I must give some directions in reference to it. To you, my Lord Craven, whose intrepidity I well know, I intrust the most important post. You will station yourself at the east of the conflagration, and if you find it making its way to the Tower, as I hear is the case, check it at all hazards. The old fortress must be preserved at any risk. But do not resort to gunpowder unless you receive an order from me accompanied by my signet-ring. My Lords Hollis and Ashley, you will have the care of the north-west of the city. Station yourselves near Newgate Market. Rochester and Arlington, your posts will be at Saint Paul's. Watch over the august cathedral. I would not have it injured for half my kingdom. Brother," he added to the Duke of York, "you will accompany me in my barge—and you, Mr. Pepys. You, young man," to Leonard, "can follow in my train."

"Has your majesty no post for me?" asked Argentine.

"No," replied Charles, turning coldly from him.

"Had not your majesty better let him have the custody of your gaol of Newgate?" remarked Rochester, sarcastically; "he has an interest in its safe keeping."

Lord Argentine turned deadly pale, but he made no answer. Attended by the Duke of York and Mr. Pepys, and followed at a respectful distance by Leonard, the king then passed through the ante-room, and descending the grand staircase, traversed a variety of passages, until he reached the private stairs communicating with the river. At the foot lay the royal barge, in which he embarked with his train. Charles appeared greatly moved by the sight of the thousands of his houseless subjects, whom he encountered in his passage down the Thames, and whenever a feeble shout was raised for him, he returned it with a blessing. When nearly opposite Queenhithe, he commanded the rowers to pause. The conflagration had made formidable progress since Leonard' beheld it a few hours back, and had advanced, nearly as far as the Still-yard on the river-side, while it was burning upwards through thick ranks of houses, almost as far as Cannon-street. The roaring of the flames was louder than ever—and the crash of falling habitations, and the tumult and cries of the affrighted populace, yet more terrific.

Charles gazed at the appalling spectacle like one who could not believe his senses, and it was some time before the overwhelming truth could force itself upon him. Tears then started to his eyes, and, uttering an ejaculation of despair, he commanded the rowers to make instantly for the shore.

V.

HOW LEONARD SAVED THE KING'S LIFE.

The royal barge landed at Queenhithe, and Charles instantly disembarking, proceeded on foot, and at a pace that compelled, his attendants to move quickly, to keep up with him, to Thames-street. Here, however, the confusion was so great, owing to the rush of people, and the number of vehicles employed in the removal of goods, that he was obliged to come to a halt. Fortunately, at this moment, a company of the train-bands rode up, and their leader dismounting, offered his horse to the king, who instantly sprang into the saddle, and scarcely waiting till the Duke of York could be similarly accommodated, forced his way through the crowd as far as Brewer-lane, where his progress was stopped by the intense heat. A little more than a hundred yards from this point, the whole street was on fire, and the flames bursting from the windows and roofs of the houses, with a roar like that which might be supposed to be produced by the forges of the Cyclops, united in a vast blazing arch overhead. It chanced, too, that in some places cellars filled with combustible materials extended under the street, and here the ground would crack, and jets of fire shoot forth like the eruption of a volcano. The walls and timbers of the houses at some distance from the conflagration were scorched and blistered with the heat, and completely prepared for ignition; overhead being a vast and momentarily increasing cloud of flame-coloured smoke, which spread all over the city, filling it as with a thick mist, while the glowing vault above looked, as Evelyn expresses it, "like the top of a burning oven."

Two churches, namely, Allhallows the Great and Allhallows the Less, were burnt down in the king's sight, and the lofty spire of a third, Saint Lawrence Poulteney, had just caught fire, and looked like a flame-tipped spear. After contemplating this spectacle for some time, Charles roused himself from the state of stupefaction into which he was thrown, and determined, if possible, to arrest the further progress of the devouring element along the river-side, commanded all the houses on the west of Dowgate Dock to be instantly demolished. A large body of men were therefore set upon this difficult and dangerous, and, as it proved, futile task. Another party were ordered to the same duty on Dowgate-hill; and the crash of tumbling walls and beams was soon added to the general uproar, while clouds of dust darkened the air. It was with some difficulty that a sufficient space could be kept clear for carrying these operations into effect; and long before they were half-completed, Charles had the mortification of finding the fire gaining ground so rapidly, that they must prove ineffectual. Word was brought at this juncture that a fresh fire had broken out in Elbow-lane, and while the monarch was listening to this dreary intelligence, a fearful cry was heard near the river, followed, the next moment, by a tumultuous rush of persons from that quarter. The fire, as if in scorn, had leapt across Dowgate Dock, and seizing upon the half-demolished houses, instantly made them its prey. The rapidity with which the conflagration proceeded was astounding, and completely baffled all attempts to check it. The wind continued blowing as furiously as ever, nor was there the slightest prospect of its abatement. All the king's better qualities were called into play by the present terrible crisis. With a courage and devotion that he seldom displayed, he exposed himself to the greatest risk, personally assisting at all the operations he commanded; while his humane attention to the sufferers by the calamity almost reconciled them to their deplorable situation. His movements were almost as rapid as those of the fire itself. Riding up Cannon-street, and from thence by Sweeting's-lane, to Lombard-street, and so on by Fenchurch-street to Tower-street, he issued directions all the way, checking every disturbance, and causing a band of depredators, who had broken into the house of a wealthy goldsmith, to be carried off to Newgate. Arrived in Tower-street, he found the Earl of Craven and his party stationed a little beyond Saint Dunstan's in the East.

All immediate apprehensions in this quarter appeared at an end. The church had been destroyed, as before mentioned, but several houses in its vicinity having been demolished, the fire had not extended eastward. Satisfied that the Tower was in no immediate danger, the king retraced his course, and encountering the lord mayor in Lombard-street, sharply reproved him for his want of zeal and discretion.

"I do not deserve your majesty's reproaches," replied the lord mayor. "Ever since the fire broke out I have not rested an instant, and am almost worn to death with anxiety and fatigue. I am just returned from Guildhall, where a vast quantity of plate belonging to the city companies has been deposited. Lord! Lord! what a fire this is!"

"You are chiefly to blame for its getting so much ahead," replied the king, angrily. "Had you adopted vigorous measures at the outset, it might have easily been got under. I hear no water was to be obtained. How was that?"

"It is a damnable plot, your majesty, designed by the Papists, or the Dutch, or the French—I don't know which—perhaps all three," rejoined the lord mayor; "and it appears that the cocks of all the pipes at the waterworks at Islington were turned, while the pipes and conduits in the city were empty. This is no accidental fire, your majesty."

"So I find," replied the king; "but it will be time enough to inquire into its origin hereafter. Meantime, we must act, and energetically, or we shall be equally as much to blame as the incendiaries. Let a proclamation be made, enjoining all those persons who have been driven from their homes by the fire to proceed, with such effects as they have preserved, to Moorfields, where their wants shall be cared for."

"It shall be made instantly, your majesty," replied the lord mayor.

"Your next business will be to see to the removal of all the wealth from the goldsmiths' houses in this street, and in Gracechurch-street, to some places of security, Guildhall, or the Royal Exchange, for instance," continued the king.

"Your majesty's directions shall be implicitly obeyed," replied the lord mayor.

"You will then pull down all the houses to the east of the fire," pursued the king. "Get all the men you can muster; and never relax your exertions till you have made a wide and clear breach between the flames and their prey."

"I will—I will, your majesty," groaned the lord mayor.

"About it, then," rejoined the king; and striking spurs into his horse, he rode off with his train.

He now penetrated one of the narrow alleys leading to the Three Cranes in the Vintry, where he ascended to the roof of the habitation, that he might view the fire. He saw that it was making such rapid advances towards him, that it must very soon reach the building on which he stood, and, half suffocated with the smoke, and scorched with the fire-drops, he descended.

Not long after this, Waterman's Hall was discovered to be on fire; and, stirred by the sight, Charles made fresh efforts to check the progress of the conflagration by demolishing more houses. So eagerly did he occupy himself in the task, that his life had well-nigh fallen a sacrifice to his zeal. He was standing below a building which the workmen were unroofing, when all at once the whole of the upper part of the wall gave way, dragging several heavy beams with it, and would have infallibly crushed him, if Leonard, who was stationed behind him, had not noticed the circumstance, and rushing forward with the greatest promptitude, dragged him out of harm's way. An engineer, with whom the king was conversing at the time of the accident, was buried in the ruins, and when taken out was found fearfully mutilated and quite dead. Both Charles and his preserver were covered with dust and rubbish, and Leonard received a severe blow on the shoulder from a falling brick.

On recovering from the shock, which for some moments deprived him of the power of speech, Charles inquired for his deliverer, and, on being shown him, said, with a look of surprise and pleasure, "What, is it you, young man? I am glad of it. Depend, upon it, I shall not forget the important service you have rendered me."

"If he remembers it, it will be the first time he has ever so exercised his memory," observed Chiffinch, in a loud whisper to Leonard. "I advise you, as a friend, not to let his gratitude cool."

Undeterred by this late narrow escape, Charles ordered fresh houses to be demolished, and stimulated the workmen to exertion by his personal superintendence of their operations. He commanded Leonard to keep constantly near him, laughingly observing, "I shall feel safe while you are by. You have a better eye for a falling house than any of my attendants."

Worn out at length with fatigue, Charles proceeded, with the Duke of York and his immediate attendants, to Painters' Hall, in little Trinity-lane, in quest of refreshment, where a repast was hastily prepared for him, and he sat down to it with an appetite such as the most magnificent banquet could not, under other circumstances, have provoked. His hunger satisfied, he despatched messengers to command the immediate attendance of the lord mayor, the sheriffs, and aldermen; and when they arrived, he thus addressed them:—"My lord mayor and gentlemen, it has been recommended to me by this young man," pointing to Leonard, "that the sole way of checking the further progress of this disastrous conflagration, which threatens the total destruction of our city, will be by blowing up the houses with gunpowder, so as to form a wide gap between the flames and the habitations yet remaining unseized. This plan will necessarily involve great destruction of property, and may, notwithstanding all the care that can be adopted, be attended with some loss of life; but I conceive it will be effectual. Before ordering it, however, to be put into execution, I desire to learn your opinion of it. How say you, my lord mayor and gentlemen? Does the plan meet with your approbation?"

"I pray your majesty to allow me to confer for a moment with my brethren," replied the lord mayor, cautiously, "before I return an answer. It is too serious a matter to decide upon at once."

"Be it so," replied the king.

And the civic authorities withdrew with the king. Leonard heard, though he did not dare to remark upon it, that the Duke of York leaned forward as the lord mayor passed him, and whispered in his ear, "Take heed what you do. He only desires to shift the responsibility of the act from his own shoulders to yours."

"If they assent," said the king to Leonard, "I will place you at the head of a party of engineers."

"I beseech your majesty neither to regard me nor them," replied Leonard. "Use the authority it has pleased Heaven to bestow upon you for the preservation of the city, and think and act for yourself, or you will assuredly regret your want of decision. It has been my fortune, with the assistance of God, to be the humble instrument of accomplishing your majesty's deliverance from peril, and I have your royal word that you will not forget it."

"Nor will I," cried the king, hastily.

"Then suffer the petition I now make to you to prevail," cried Leonard, falling on his knees. "Be not influenced by the opinion of the lord mayor and his brethren, whose own interests may lead them to oppose the plan; but, if you think well of it, instantly adopt it."

Charles looked irresolute, but might have yielded, if the Duke of York had not stepped forward. "Your majesty had better not act too precipitately," said the duke. "Listen to the counsels of your prudent advisers. A false step in such a case will be irretrievable."

"Nay, brother," rejoined the king, "I see no particular risk in it, after all, and I incline towards the young man's opinion."

"At least, hear what they have got to say," rejoined the duke. "And here they come. They have not been long in deliberation."

"The result of it may be easily predicted," said Leonard, rising.

As Leonard had foreseen, the civic authorities were adverse to the plan. The lord mayor in the name of himself and his brethren, earnestly solicited the king to postpone the execution of his order till all other means of checking the progress of the conflagration had been tried, and till such time, at least, as the property of the owners of the houses to be destroyed could be removed. He further added, that it was the unanimous opinion of himself and his brethren, that the plan was fraught with great peril to the safety of the citizens, and that they could not bring themselves to assent to it. If, therefore, his majesty chose to adopt it, they must leave the responsibility with him.

"I told your majesty how it would be," observed the Duke of York, triumphantly.

"I am sorry to find you are right, brother," replied the king, frowning. "We are overruled, you see, friend," he added to Leonard.

"Your majesty has signed the doom of your city," rejoined Leonard, mournfully.

"I trust not—I trust not," replied Charles, hastily, and with an uneasy shrug of the shoulder. "Fail not to remind me when all is over of the obligation I am under to you."

"Your majesty has refused the sole boon I desired to have granted," rejoined Leonard.

"And do you not see the reason, friend?" returned the king. "These worthy and wealthy citizens desire to remove their property. Their arguments are unanswerable. I must give them time to do it. But we waste time here," he added, rising. "Remember," to Leonard, "my debt is not discharged. And I command you, on pain of my sovereign displeasure, not to omit to claim its payment."

"I will enter it in my memorandum-book, and will put your majesty in mind of it at the fitting season," observed Chiffinch, who had taken a great fancy to Leonard.

The king smiled good-humouredly, and quitting the hall with his attendants, proceeded to superintend the further demolition of houses. He next visited all the posts, saw that the different noblemen were at their appointed stations, and by his unremitting exertions, contrived to restore something like order to the tumultuous streets. Thousands of men were now employed in different quarters in pulling down houses, and the most powerful engines of war were employed in the work. The confusion that attended these proceedings is indescribable. The engineers and workmen wrought in clouds of dust and smoke, and the crash of falling timber and walls was deafening. In a short time, the upper part of Cornhill was rendered wholly impassable, owing to the heaps of rubbish; and directions were given to the engineers to proceed to the Poultry, and demolish the houses as far as the Conduit in Cheapside, by which means it was hoped that the Royal Exchange would be saved.

Meanwhile, all the wealthy goldsmiths and merchants in Lombard-street and Gracechurch-street had been actively employed in removing all their money, plate, and goods, to places of security. A vast quantity was conveyed to Guildhall, as has been stated, and the rest to different churches and halls remote from the scene of conflagration. But in spite of all their caution, much property was carried off by the depredators, and amongst others by Chowles and Judith, who contrived to secure a mass of plate, gold, and jewels, that satisfied even their rapacious souls. While this was passing in the heart of the burning city, vast crowds were streaming out of its gates, and encamping themselves, in pursuance of the royal injunction, in Finsbury Fields and Spitalfields. Others crossed the water to Southwark, and took refuge in Saint George's Fields; and it was a sad and touching sight to see all these families collected without shelter or food, most of whom a few hours before were in possession of all the comforts of life, but were now reduced to the condition of beggars.

To return to the conflagration:—While one party continued to labour incessantly at the work of demolition, and ineffectually sought to quench the flames, by bringing a few engines to play upon them,—a scanty supply of water having now been obtained—the fire, disdaining such puny opposition, and determined to show its giant strength, leaped over all the breaches, drove the water-carriers back, compelled them to relinquish their buckets, and to abandon their engines, which it made its prey, and seizing upon the heaps of timber and other fragments occasioned by the demolition, consumed them, and marched onwards with furious exultation. It was now proceeding up Gracechurch-street, Saint Clement's-lane, Nicholas-lane, and Abchurch-lane at the same time, destroying all in its course. The whole of Lombard-street was choked up with the ruins and rubbish of demolished houses, through which thousands of persons were toiling to carry off goods, either for the purpose of assistance or of plunder. The king was at the west end of the street, near the church of Saint Mary Woolnoth, and the fearful havoc and destruction going forward drew tears from his eyes. A scene of greater confusion cannot be imagined. Leonard was in the midst of it, and, careless of his own safety, toiled amid the tumbling fragments of the houses to rescue some article of value for its unfortunate owner. While he was thus employed, he observed a man leap out of a window of a partly demolished house, disclosing in the action that he had a casket concealed under his cloak.

A second glance showed him that this individual was Pillichody, and satisfied that he had been plundering the house, he instantly seized him. The bully struggled violently, but at last, dropping the casket, made his escape, vowing to be revenged. Leonard laughed at his threats, and the next moment had the satisfaction of restoring the casket to its rightful owner, an old merchant, who issued from the house, and who, after thanking him, told him it contained jewels of immense value.

Not half an hour after this, the flames poured upon Lombard-street from the four avenues before mentioned, and the whole neighbourhood was on fire. With inconceivable rapidity, they then ran up Birchin-lane, and reaching Cornhill, spread to the right and left in that great thoroughfare. The conflagration had now reached the highest point of the city, and presented the grandest and most terrific aspect it had yet assumed from the river. Thus viewed, it appeared, as Pepys describes it, "as an entire arch of fire from the Three Cranes to the other side of the bridge, and in a bow up the hill, for an arch of above a mile long: it made me weep to see it." Vincent also likens its appearance at this juncture to that of a bow. "A dreadful bow it was," writes this eloquent nonconformist preacher, "such as mine eyes have never before seen; a bow which had God's arrow in it with a flaming point; a shining bow, not like that in the cloud which brings water with it, and withal signifieth God's covenant not to destroy the world any more with water, but a bow having fire in it, and signifying God's anger, and his intention to destroy London with fire."

As the day drew to a close, and it became darker, the spectacle increased in terror and sublimity. The tall black towers of the churches assumed ghastly forms, and to some eyes appeared like infernal spirits plunging in a lake of flame, while even to the most reckless the conflagration seemed to present a picture of the terrors of the Last Day. Never before had such a night as that which ensued fallen upon London. None of its inhabitants thought of retiring to rest, or if they sought repose after the excessive fatigue they had undergone, it was only in such manner as would best enable them to rise and renew their exertions to check the flames, which were continued throughout the night, but wholly without success. The conflagration appeared to proceed at the same appalling rapidity. Halls, towers, churches, public and private buildings, were burning to the number of more than ten thousand, while clouds of smoke covered the vast expanse of more than fifty miles. Travellers approaching London from the north-east were enveloped in it ten miles off, and the fiery reflection in the sky could be discerned at an equal distance. The "hideous storm," as Evelyn terms the fearful and astounding noise produced by the roaring of the flames and the falling of the numerous fabrics, continued without intermission during the whole of that fatal night.

VI.

HOW THE GROCER'S HOUSE WAS BURNT.

It was full ten o'clock before Leonard could obtain permission to quit the king's party, and he immediately hurried to Wood-street. He had scarcely entered it, when the cry of "fire" smote his ears, and rushing forward in an agony of apprehension, he beheld Mr. Bloundel's dwelling in flames. A large crowd was collected before the burning habitation, keeping guard over a vast heap of goods and furniture that had been removed from it.

So much beloved was Mr. Bloundel, and in such high estimation was his character held, that all his neighbours, on learning that his house was on fire, flew to his assistance, and bestirred themselves so actively, that in an extraordinary short space of time they had emptied the house of every article of value, and placed it out of danger in the street. In vain the grocer urged them to desist: his entreaties were disregarded by his zealous friends; and when he told them they were profaning the Sabbath, they replied that the responsibility of their conduct would rest entirely on themselves, and they hoped they might never have anything worse to answer for. In spite of his disapproval of what was done, the grocer could not but be sensibly touched by their devotion, and as to his wife, she said, with tears in her eyes, that "it was almost worth while having a fire to prove what good friends they had."

It was at this juncture that Leonard arrived. Way was instantly made for him, and leaping over the piles of chests and goods that blocked up the thoroughfare, he flew to Mr. Bloundel, who was standing in front of his flaming habitation with as calm and unmoved an expression of countenance as if nothing was happening, and presently ascertained from him in what manner the fire had originated. It appeared that while the whole of the family were assembled at prayers, in the room ordinarily used for that purpose, they were alarmed at supper by a strong smell of smoke, which seemed to arise from the lower part of the house, and that as soon as their devotions were ended, for Mr. Bloundel would not allow them to stir before, Stephen and Blaize had proceeded to ascertain the cause, and on going down to the kitchen, found a dense smoke issuing from the adjoining cellar, the door of which stood ajar. Hearing a noise in the yard, they darted up the back steps, communicating with the cellar, and discovered a man trying to make his escape over the wall by a rope-ladder. Stephen instantly seized him, and the man, drawing a sword, tried to free himself from his captor. In the struggle, he dropped a pistol, which Blaize snatching up, discharged with fatal effect against the wretch, who, on examination, proved to be Pillichody.

Efforts were made to check the fire, but in vain. The villain had accomplished his diabolical purpose too well. Acquainted with the premises, and with the habits of the family, he had got into the yard by means of a rope-ladder, and hiding himself till the servants were summoned to prayers, stole into the cellar, and placing a fire-ball amid a heap of fagots and coals, and near several large casks of oil, and other inflammable matters, struck a light, and set fire to it.

"I shall ever reproach myself that I was away when this calamity occurred," observed Leonard, as the grocer brought his relation to an end.

"Then you will do so without reason," replied Mr. Bloundel, "for you could have rendered no assistance, and you see my good neighbours have taken the matter entirely out of my hands."

"Whither do you intend removing, sir?" rejoined Leonard. "If I might suggest, I would advise you to go to Farmer Wingfield's, at Kensal Green."

"You have anticipated my intention," replied the grocer; "but we must now obtain some vehicles to transport these goods thither."

"Be that my part," replied Leonard. And in a short space of time he had procured half a dozen large carts, into which the whole of the goods were speedily packed, and a coach having been likewise fetched by Blaize, Mrs. Bloundel and the three younger children, together with old Josyna and Patience, were placed in it.

"I hope your mother has taken care of her money," whispered the latter to the porter, as he assisted her into the vehicle.

"Never mind whether she has or not," rejoined Blaize, in the same tone; "we shan't want it. I am now as rich as my master—perhaps richer. On stripping that rascal Pillichody, I found a large bag of gold, besides several caskets of jewels, upon him, all of which I consider lawful spoil, as he fell by my hand."

"To be sure," rejoined Patience. "I dare say he did not come very honestly by the treasures, but you can't help that, you know."

Blaize made no reply, but pushing her into the coach, shut the door. All being now in readiness, directions were given to the drivers of the carts whither to proceed, and they were put in motion. At this moment the grocer's firmness deserted him. Gazing at the old habitation, which was now wrapped in a sheet of flame, he cried in a voice broken with emotion, "In that house I have dwelt nearly thirty years—in that house all my children were born—in that house I found a safe refuge from the devouring pestilence. It is hard to quit it thus."

Controlling his emotion, however, the next moment, he turned away. But his feelings were destined to another trial. His neighbours flocked round him to bid him farewell, in tones of such sympathy and regard, that his constancy again deserted him.

"Thank you, thank you," he cried, pressing in turn each hand that was offered him. "Your kindness will never be effaced from my memory. God bless you all, and may He watch over you and protect you!" and with these words he broke from them. So great was the crowd and confusion in Cheapside, that nearly two hours elapsed before they reached Newgate; and, indeed, if it had not been for the interference of the Earl of Rochester, they would not, in all probability, have got out of the city at all. The earl was stationed near the Old 'Change, at the entrance to Saint Paul's Churchyard, and learning their distress, ordered a party of the guard by whom he was attended to force a passage for them. Both Mr. Bloundel and Leonard would have declined this assistance if they had had the power of doing so, but there was no help in the present case.

They encountered no further difficulties, but were necessarily compelled to proceed at a slow pace, and did not reach Paddington for nearly two hours, being frequently stopped by persons eagerly asking as to the progress of the fire. One circumstance struck the whole party as remarkable. Such was the tremendous glare of the conflagration, that even at this distance the fire seemed close beside them, and if they had not known the contrary, they would have thought it could not be further off than Saint Giles's. The whole eastern sky in that direction seemed on fire, and glowed through the clouds of yellow smoke with which the air was filled with fearful splendour. After halting for a short time at the Wheat Sheaf, which they found open,—for, indeed, no house was closed that night,—to obtain some refreshment, and allay the intolerable thirst by which they were tormented, the party pursued their journey along the Harrow-road, and in due time approached Wingfield's residence.

The honest farmer, who, with his wife and two of his men, was standing in a field at the top of the hill, gazing at the conflagration, hearing the noise occasioned by the carts, ran to the road-side to see what was coming, and encountered Mr. Bloundel and Leonard, who had walked up the ascent a little more quickly than the others.

"I have been thinking of you," he said, after a cordial greeting had passed between them, "and wondering what would become of you in this dreadful fire. Nay, I had just told my dame I should go and look after you, and see whether I could be of any service to you. Well, I should be better pleased to see you in any way but this, though you could not be welcomer. I have room in the barn and outhouses for all you have brought, and hope and trust you have not lost much."

"I have lost nothing except the old house," replied the grocer, heaving a sigh.

"Another will soon be built," rejoined Wingfield, "and till that is done you shall not quit mine."

The coach having by this time arrived, Wingfield hastened towards it, and assisted its occupants to alight. Mrs. Bloundel was warmly welcomed by Dame Wingfield, and being taken with her children to the house, was truly happy to find herself under the shelter of its hospitable roof. The rest of the party, assisted by Wingfield and his men, exerting themselves to the utmost, the carts were speedily unloaded, and the goods deposited in the barns and outhouses. This done, the drivers were liberally rewarded for their trouble by Mr. Bloundel, and after draining several large jugs of ale brought them by the farmer, made the best of their way back, certain of obtaining further employment during the night.

Fatigued as he was, Leonard, before retiring to rest, could not help lingering on the brow of the hill to gaze at the burning city. The same effect was observable here as at Paddington, and the conflagration appeared little more than a mile off. The whole heavens seemed on fire, and a distant roar was heard like the rush of a high wind through a mighty forest. Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul's could be distinctly seen in black relief against the sheet of flame, together with innumerable towers, spires, and other buildings, the whole constituting a picture unsurpassed for terrific grandeur since the world began, and only to be equalled by its final destruction.

Having gazed at the conflagration for some time, and fancied that he could even at this distance discern the fearful progress it made, Leonard retired to the barn, and throwing himself upon a heap of straw, instantly fell asleep. He was awakened the next morning by Farmer Wingfield, who came to tell him breakfast was ready, and having performed his ablutions, they adjourned to the house. Finding Mr. Bloundel comfortably established in his new quarters, Leonard proposed as soon as breakfast was over to proceed to town, and Wingfield volunteered to accompany him. Blaize, also, having placed his treasures, except a few pieces of gold, in the custody of Patience, begged to make one of the party, and his request being acceded to, the trio set out on foot, and gleaning fresh particulars of the fearful progress of the fire, as they advanced, passed along Oxford-road, and crossing Holborn Bridge, on the western side of which they were now demolishing the houses, mounted Snow-hill, and passed through the portal of Newgate.

Here they learnt that the whole of Wood-street was consumed, that the fire had spread eastward as far as Gutter-lane, and that Saint Michael's Church, adjoining Wood-street, Goldsmiths' Hall, and the church of Saint John Zachary, were in flames. They were also told that the greater part of Cheapside was on fire, and wholly impassable—while the destructive element was invading at one and the same time Guildhall and the Royal Exchange. They furthermore learnt that the conflagration had spread fearfully along the side of the river, had passed Queenhithe, consuming all the wharves and warehouses in its way, and having just destroyed Paul's Wharf, was at that time assailing Baynard's Castle. This intelligence determined them not to attempt to proceed further into the city, which they saw was wholly impracticable; and they accordingly turned down Ivy-lane, and approached the cathedral with the intention, if possible, of ascending the central tower. They found a swarm of booksellers' porters and assistants at the northern entrance, engaged in transporting immense bales of books and paper to the vaults in Saint Faith's, where it was supposed the stock would be in safety, permission to that effect having been obtained from the dean and chapter.

Forcing their way through this crowd, Leonard and his companions crossed the transept, and proceeded towards the door of the spiral staircase leading to the central tower. It was open, and they passed through it. On reaching the summit of the tower, which they found occupied by some dozen or twenty persons, a spectacle that far exceeded the utmost stretch of their imaginations burst upon them. Through clouds of tawny smoke scarcely distinguishable from flame, so thickly were they charged with sparks and fire-flakes, they beheld a line of fire spreading along Cheapside and Cornhill, as far as the Royal Exchange, which was now in flames, and branching upwards in another line through Lawrence-lane to Guildhall, which was likewise burning. Nearer to them, on the north, the fire kindled by the wretched Pillichody, who only, perhaps, anticipated the work of destruction by a few hours, had, as they had heard, proceeded to Goldsmiths' Hall, and was rapidly advancing down Saint Ann's-lane to Aldersgate. But it was on the right, and to the south-east, that the conflagration assumed its most terrific aspect. There, from Bow Church to the river-side, beyond the bridge as far as Billingsgate, and from thence up Mincing-lane, crossing Fenchurch-street and Lime-street to Gracechurch and Cornhill, describing a space of more than two miles in length and one in depth, every habitation was on fire. The appearance of this bed of flame was like an ocean of fire agitated by a tempest, in which a number of barks were struggling, some of them being each moment engulfed. The stunning and unearthly roar of the flames aided this appearance, which was further heightened by the enormous billows of flame that ever and anon rolled tumultuously onward as they were caught by some gust of wind of more than usual violence. The spires of the churches looked like the spars of "tall admirals," that had foundered, while the blackening ruins of the halls and larger buildings well represented the ribs and beams of mighty hulks.

Leaving Leonard and his companions to the contemplation of this tremendous spectacle, we shall proceed to take a nearer view of its ravages. Every effort had been used to preserve the Royal Exchange by the city authorities, and by the engineers, headed by the king in person. All the buildings in its vicinity were demolished. But in vain. The irresistible and unrelenting foe drove the defenders back as before, seized upon their barricades, and used them, like a skilful besieger, against the fortress they sought to protect. Solomon Eagle, who was mounted upon a heap of ruins, witnessed this scene of destruction, and uttered a laugh of exultation as the flames seized upon their prey.

"I told you," he cried, "that the extortioners and usurers who resorted to that building, and made gold their god, would be driven forth, and their temple destroyed. And my words have come to pass. It burns—it burns—and so shall they, if they turn not from their ways."

Hearing this wild speech, and beholding the extraordinary figure of the enthusiast, whose scorched locks and smoke-begrimed limbs gave him almost the appearance of an infernal spirit, the king inquired, with some trepidation, from his attendants, who or what he was, and being informed, ordered them to seize him. But the enthusiast set their attempts at naught. Springing with wonderful agility from fragment to fragment of the ruins, and continuing his vociferations, he at last plunged through the flame into the Exchange itself, rendering further pursuit, of course, impossible, unless those who desired to capture him, were determined to share his fate, which now seemed inevitable. To the astonishment of all, however, he appeared a few minutes afterwards on the roof of the blazing pile, and continued his denunciations till driven away by the flames. He seemed, indeed, to bear a charmed life, for it was rumoured—though the report was scarcely credited—that he had escaped from the burning building, and made good his retreat to Saint Paul's. Soon after this, the Exchange was one mass of flame. Having gained an entrance to the galleries, the fire ran round them with inconceivable swiftness, as was the case in the conflagration of this later structure, and filling every chamber, gushed out of the windows, and poured down upon the courts and walks below. Fearful and prodigious was the ruin that ensued. The stone walls cracked with the intense heat—tottered and fell—the pillars shivered and broke asunder, the statues dropped from their niches, and were destroyed, one only surviving the wreck—that of the illustrious founder, Sir Thomas Gresham.

Deploring the fate of the Royal Exchange, the king and his attendants proceeded to Guildhall. But here they were too late, nor could they even rescue a tithe of the plate and valuables lodged within it for security. The effects of the fire as displayed in this structure, were singularly grand and surprising. The greater part of the ancient fabric being composed of oak of the hardest kind, it emitted little flame, but became after a time red hot, and remained in this glowing state till night, when it resembled, as an eye-witness describes, "a mighty palace of gold, or a great building of burnished brass."

The greatest fury of the conflagration was displayed at the Poultry, where five distinct fires met, and united their forces—one which came roaring down Cornhill from the Royal Exchange—a second down Threadneedle-street—a third up Walbrook—a fourth along Bucklersbury—and a fifth that marched against the wind up Cheapside, all these uniting, as at a focus, a whirl of flame, an intensity of heat, and a thundering roar were produced, such as were nowhere else experienced.

To return to the party on the central tower of the cathedral:—Stunned and half stifled by the roar and smoke, Leonard and his companions descended from their lofty post, and returned to the body of the fane. They were about to issue forth, when Leonard, glancing down the northern aisle, perceived the Earl of Rochester and Lord Argentine standing together at the lower end of it. Their gestures showed that it was not an amicable meeting, and mindful of what had passed at Whitehall, Leonard resolved to abide the result. Presently, he saw Lord Argentine turn sharply round, and strike his companion in the face with his glove. The clash of swords instantly succeeded, and Leonard and Wingfield started forward to separate the combatants. Blaize, followed, but more cautiously, contenting himself with screaming at the top of his voice, "Murder! murder! sacrilege! a duel! a duel!"

Wingfield was the first to arrive at the scene of strife, but just as he reached the combatants, who were too much blinded by passion to notice his approach, Lord Argentine struck his adversary's weapon from his grasp, and would have followed up the advantage if the farmer had not withheld his arm. Enraged at the interference, Argentine turned his fury against the newcomer, and strove to use his sword against him—but in the terrible struggle that ensued, and at the close of which they fell together, the weapon, as if directed by the hand of an avenging fate, passed through his own breast, inflicting a mortal wound.

"Susan Wingfield is avenged!" said the farmer, as he arose, drenched in the blood of his opponent.

"Susan Wingfield!" exclaimed the wounded man—"what was she to you?"

"Much," replied the farmer. "She was my daughter."

"Ah!" exclaimed Argentine, with an expression of unutterable anguish. "Let me have your forgiveness," he groaned.

"You have it," replied Wingfield, kneeling beside him, "and may God pardon us both—you for the wrong you did my daughter, me for being accidentally the cause of your death. But I trust you are not mortally hurt?"

"I have not many minutes to live," replied Argentine. "But is not that Leonard Holt?"

"It is," said Rochester, stepping forward.

"I can then do one rightful act before I die," he said, raising himself on one hand, and holding the other forcibly to his side, so as to stanch in some degree the effusion of blood. "Leonard Holt," he continued, "my sister Isabella loves you—deeply, devotedly. I have tried to conquer the passion, but in vain. You have my consent to wed her."

"I am a witness to your words my lord," said Rochester, "and I call upon all present to be so likewise."

"Rochester, you were once my friend," groaned Argentine, "and may yet be a friend to the dead. Remember the king sells titles. Teach this young man how to purchase one. My sister must not wed one of his degree."

"Make yourself easy on that score," replied Rochester; "he has already sufficient claim upon the king. He saved his life yesterday."

"He will trust to a broken reed if he trusts to Charles's gratitude," replied Argentine. "Buy the title—buy it, I say. My sister left me yesterday. I visited my anger on her head, and she fled. I believe she took refuge with Doctor Hodges, but I am sure he can tell you where she is. One thing more," continued the dying man, fixing his glazing eyes on Leonard. "Go to Newgate—to—to a prisoner there—an incendiary—and obtain a document of him. Tell him, with my dying breath I charged you to do this. It will enable you to act as I have directed. Promise me you will go. Promise me you will fulfil my injunctions."

"I do," replied Leonard.

"Enough," rejoined Argentine. "May you be happy with Isabella." And removing his hand from his side, a copious effusion of blood followed, and, sinking backwards, he expired.

VII.

THE BURNING OF SAINT PAUL'S.

Several other persons having by this time come up, the body of Lord Argentine was conveyed to Bishop Kempe's Chapel, and left there till a fitting season should arrive for its removal. Confounded by the tragical event that had taken place, Leonard remained with his eyes fixed upon the blood-stained pavement, until he was roused by an arm which gently drew him away, while the voice of the Earl of Rochester breathed in his ear, "This is a sad occurrence, Leonard; and yet it is most fortunate for you, for it removes the only obstacle to your union with the Lady Isabella. You see how fleeting life is, and how easily we may be deprived of it. I tried to reason Lord Argentine into calmness; but nothing would satisfy him except my blood; and there he lies, though not by my hand. Let his fate be a lesson to us, and teach us to live in charity with each other. I have wronged you—deeply wronged you; but I will make all the atonement in my power, and let me think I am forgiven."

The blood rushed tumultuously to Leonard's heart as he listened to what the earl said, but overcoming his feelings of aversion by a powerful effort, he took the proffered hand.

"I do forgive you my lord," he said.

"Those words have removed a heavy weight from my soul," replied Rochester; "and if death should trip up my heels as suddenly as he did his who perished on this spot, I shall be better prepared to meet him. And now let me advise you to repair to Newgate without delay, and see the wretched man, and obtain the document from him. The fire will reach the gaol ere long, and the prisoners must of necessity be removed. Amid the confusion his escape might be easily accomplished."

"Recollect, my lord, that the direful conflagration now prevailing without is owing to him," replied Leonard. "I will never be accessory to his escape."

"And yet his death by the public executioner," urged Rochester. "Think of its effect on his daughter."

"Justice must take its course," rejoined Leonard. "I would not aid him to escape if he were my own father."

"In that case, nothing more is to be said," replied Rochester. "But at all events, see him as quickly as you can. I would accompany you, but my duty detains me here. When you return from your errand you will find me at my post near the entrance of the churchyard in front of Saint Michael's le Quern; that is, if I am not beaten from it. Having seen the father, your next business must be to seek out the daughter, and remove her from this dangerous neighbourhood. You have heard where she is to be found."

Upon this they separated, Leonard and his companions quitting the cathedral by the great western entrance, and proceeding towards Paul's-alley, and the earl betaking himself to the north-east corner of the churchyard. The former got as far as Ivy-lane, but found it wholly impassable, in consequence of the goods and furniture with which it was blocked up. They were, therefore, obliged to return to the precincts of the cathedral, where Blaize, who was greatly terrified by what he had seen, expressed his determination of quitting them, and hurried back to the sacred pile. Leonard and the farmer next essayed to get up Ave Maria-lane; but, finding that also impassable, they made for Ludgate, and, after a long delay and severe struggle, got through the portal. The Old Bailey was entirely filled with persons removing their goods; and they were here informed, to their great dismay, that the conflagration had already reached Newgate Market, which was burning with the greatest fury, and was at that moment seizing upon the gaol. No one, however, in answer to Leonard's inquiries, could tell him what had become of the prisoners.

"I suppose they have left them to burn," observed a bystander, who heard the question with a malicious look; "and it is the best way of getting rid of them." Paying no attention to the remark, nor to the brutal laugh accompanying it, Leonard, assisted by Wingfield, fought his way through the crowd till he reached the prison. The flames were bursting through its grated windows, and both wings, as well as the massive gate connecting them, were on fire. Regardless of the risk he ran, Leonard forced his way to the lodge-door, where two turnkeys were standing, removing their goods.

"What has become of the prisoners?" he asked.

"The debtors are set free," replied the turnkey addressed, "and all but one or two of the common felons are removed."

"And where are those poor creatures?" cried Leonard, horror-stricken.

"In the Stone Hold," replied the turnkey.

"And have you left them to perish there?" demanded Leonard.

"We couldn't help it," rejoined the turnkey. "It would have been risking our lives to venture near them. One is a murderer, taken in the fact; and the other is quite as bad, for he set the city on fire; so its right and fair he should perish by his own contrivance."

"Where does the Stone Hold lie?" cried Leonard, in a tone that startled the turnkey. "I must get these prisoners out."

"You can't, I tell you," rejoined the turnkey, doggedly. "They're burnt to a cinder by this time."

"Give me your keys, and show me the way to the cell," cried Leonard, authoritatively. "I will at least attempt to save them."

"Well, if you're determined to put an end to yourself, you may try," replied the turnkey; "but I've warned you as to what you may expect. This way," he added, opening a door, from which a thick volume of smoke issued; "if any of 'em's alive, you'll soon know by the cries." And, as if in answer to his remark, a most terrific shriek at that moment burst on their ears.

"Here are the keys," cried the turnkey, delivering them to Leonard. "You are not going too?" he added, as Wingfield pushed past him. "A couple of madmen! I shouldn't wonder if they were incendiaries."

Directed by the cries, Leonard pressed forward through the blinding and stifling smoke. After proceeding about twenty yards, he arrived at a cross passage where the smoke was not quite so dense, as it found an escape through a small grated aperture in the wall. And here a horrible sight was presented to him. At the further extremity of this passage was a small cell, from which the cries he had heard issued. Not far from it the stone roof had fallen in, and from the chasm thus caused the flames were pouring into the passage. Regardless of the risk he ran, Leonard dashed forward, and reaching the cell, beheld Grant, still living, but in such a dreadful state, that it was evident his sufferings must soon be ended. His hair and beard were singed close to his head and face, and his flesh was blistered, blackened, and scorched to the bone. On seeing Leonard, he uttered a hoarse cry, and attempted to speak, but the words rattled in his throat. He then staggered forward, and, to Leonard's inexpressible horror, thrust his arms through the bars of the cage, which were literally red-hot. Seeing he had something in one hand, though he could not unclose his fingers, Leonard took it from him, and the wretched man fell backwards. At this moment a loud crack was heard in the wall behind. Several ponderous stones dropped from their places, admitting a volume of flame that filled the whole cell, and disclosing another body on the floor, near which lay that of Grant. Horrified by the spectacle, Leonard staggered off, and, catching Wingfield's arm, sought to retrace his steps. This was no easy matter, the smoke being so dense, that they could not see a foot before them, and was obliged to feel their way along the wall. On arriving at the cross passage, Wingfield would fain have turned off to the right, but Leonard drew him forcibly in the opposite direction; and most fortunate was it that he did so, or the worthy farmer would inevitably have perished. At last they reached the lodge, and sank down on a bench from exhaustion.

"So, my masters," observed the turnkey, with a grim smile, "you were not able to rescue them, I perceive?" But receiving no answer, he added, "Well, and what did you see?"

"A sight that would have moved even your stony heart to compassion," returned Leonard, getting up and quitting the lodge. Followed by Wingfield, and scarcely knowing where he was going, he forced his way through the crowd, and dashing down Snow-hill, did not stop till he reached Holborn Conduit, where, seizing a leathern bucket, he filled it with water, and plunged his head into it. Refreshed by the immersion, he now glanced at the document committed to him by Grant. It was a piece of parchment, and showed by its shrivelled and scorched appearance the agony which its late possessor must have endured, Leonard did not open it, but thrust it with a shudder into his doublet.

Meditating on the strange and terrible events that had just occurred, Leonard's thoughts involuntarily wandered to the Lady Isabella, whose image appeared to him like a bright star shining on troubled waters, and for the first time venturing to indulge in a hope that she might indeed be his, he determined immediately to proceed in search of her.

It was now high noon, but the mid-day sun was scarcely visible, or not visible at all; as it struggled through the masses of yellow vapour it looked red as blood. Bands of workmen were demolishing houses on the western side of Fleet Ditch, and casting the rubbish into the muddy sluice before them, by which means it was confidently but vainly hoped that the progress of the fire would be checked. Shaping their course along the opposite side of the ditch, and crossing to Fleet Bridge, Leonard and his companion passed through Salisbury-court to Whitefriars, and taking a boat, directed the waterman to land them at Puddle Dock. The river was still covered with craft of every description laden with goods, and Baynard's Castle, an embattled stone structure of great strength and solidity, built at the beginning of the fifteenth century on the site of another castle as old as the Conquest, being now wrapped in flames from foundation to turret, offered a magnificent spectacle. From this point the four ascents leading to the cathedral, namely, Addle-hill, Saint Bennet's-hill, Saint Peter's-hill, and Lambert-hill, with all their throng of habitations, were burning—the black lines of ruined walls standing in bold relief against the white sheet of flame. Billows of fire rolled upwards every moment towards Saint Paul's, and threatened it with destruction.

Landing at the appointed place Leonard and his companion ascended Saint Andrew's-hill, and, proceeding along Carter-lane, soon gained the precincts of the cathedral. Here the whole mass of habitations on the summit of Saint Bennet's-hill extending from the eastern, end of Carter-lane to Distaff-lane, was on fire, and the flames were dashed by the fierce wind against the south-east corner of the cathedral. A large crowd was collected at this point, and great efforts were made to save the venerable pile, but Leonard saw that its destruction was inevitable. Forcing a way through the throng with his companion, they reached Doctor Hodges's residence at the corner of Watling-street, and Leonard, without waiting to knock, tried the door, which yielded to his touch. The habitation was empty, and from the various articles scattered about it was evident its inmates must have fled with the greatest precipitation. Alarmed at this discovery, Leonard rushed forth with Wingfield, and sought to ascertain from the crowd without whither Doctor Hodges was gone, but could learn nothing more than that he had departed with his whole household a few hours before. At last it occurred to him that he might obtain some information from the Earl of Rochester, and he was about to cross to the other side of the churchyard, when he was arrested by a simultaneous cry of horror from the assemblage. Looking upwards, for there he saw the general gaze directed, he perceived that the scaffolding around the roof and tower of the cathedral had kindled, and was enveloping the whole upper part of the fabric in a network of fire. Flames were likewise bursting from the belfry, and from the lofty pointed windows below it, flickering and playing round the hoary buttresses, and disturbing the numerous jackdaws that built in their timeworn crevices, and now flew screaming forth. As Leonard gazed at the summit of the tower, be discerned through the circling eddies of smoke that enveloped it the figure of Solomon Eagle standing on the top of the battlements and waving his staff, and almost fancied he could hear his voice. After remaining in this perilous situation for some minutes, as if to raise anxiety for his safety to the highest pitch, the enthusiast sprang upon a portion of the scaffolding that was only partly consumed, and descended from pole to pole, regardless whether burning or not, with marvellous swiftness, and apparently without injury. Alighting on the roof, he speeded to the eastern extremity of the fane, and there commenced his exhortations to the crowd below.

It now became evident also, from the strange roaring noise proceeding from the tower, that the flames were descending the spiral staircase, and forcing their way through some secret doors or passages to the roof. Determined to take one last survey of the interior of the cathedral before its destruction, which he now saw was inevitable, Leonard motioned to Wingfield, and forcing his way through the crowd, which was now considerably thinned, entered the southern door. He had scarcely gained the middle of the transept when the door opened behind him, and two persons, whom, even in the brief glimpse he caught of them, he knew to be Chowles and Judith, darted towards the steps leading to Saint Faith's. They appeared to be carrying a large chest, but Leonard was too much interested in what was occurring to pay much attention to them. There were but few persons besides himself and his companion within the cathedral, and these few were chiefly booksellers' porters, who were hurrying out of Saint Faith's in the utmost trepidation. By-and-by, these were gone, and they were alone—alone within that vast structure, and at such a moment. Their situation, though perilous, was one that awakened thrilling and sublime emotions. The cries of the multitude, coupled with the roaring of the conflagration, resounded from without, while the fierce glare of the flames lighted up the painted windows at the head of the choir with unwonted splendour. Overhead was heard a hollow rumbling noise like that of distant thunder, which continued for a short time, while fluid streams of smoke crept through the mighty rafters of the roof, and gradually filled the whole interior of the fabric with vapour. Suddenly a tremendous cracking was heard, as if the whole pile were tumbling in pieces. So appalling was this sound, that Leonard and his companion would have fled, but they were completely transfixed by terror.

While they were in this state, the flames, which had long been burning in secret, burst through the roof at the other end of the choir, and instantaneously spread over its whole expanse. At this juncture, a cry of wild exultation was heard in the great northern gallery, and looking up, Leonard beheld Solomon Eagle, hurrying with lightning swiftness around it, and shouting in tones of exultation, "My words have come to pass—it burns—it burns—and will be utterly consumed!"

The vociferations of the enthusiast were answered by a piercing cry from below, proceeding from Blaize, who at that moment rushed from the entrance of Saint Faith's. On seeing the porter, Leonard shouted to him, and the poor fellow hurried towards him. At this juncture, a strange hissing sound was heard, as if a heavy shower of rain were descending upon the roof, and through the yawning gap over the choir there poured a stream of molten lead of silvery brightness. Nothing can be conceived more beautiful than this shining yet terrible cascade, which descended with momentarily increasing fury, sparkling, flashing, hissing, and consuming all before it. All the elaborately carved woodwork and stalls upon which it fell were presently in flames. Leonard and his companions now turned to fly, but they had scarcely moved a few paces when another fiery cascade burst through the roof near the great western entrance, for which they were making, flooding the aisles and plashing against the massive columns. At the same moment, too, a third stream began to fall over the northern transept, not far from where Blaize stood, and a few drops of the burning metal reaching him, caused him to utter the most fearful outcries. Seriously alarmed, Leonard and Wingfield now rushed to one of the monuments in the northern aisle, and hastily clambering it, reached a window, which they burst open. Blaize followed them, but not without receiving a few accidental plashes from the fiery torrents, which elicited from him the most astounding yells. Having helped him to climb the monument, Leonard pushed him through the window after Wingfield, and then cast his eye round the building before he himself descended. The sight was magnificent in the extreme. Prom the flaming roof three silvery cascades descended. The choir was in flame, and a glowing stream like lava was spreading over the floor, and slowly trickling down the steps leading to the body of the church. The transepts and the greater part of the nave were similarly flooded. Above the roar of the flames and the hissing plash of the descending torrents, was heard the wild laughter of Solomon Eagle. Perceiving him in one of the arcades of the southern gallery, Leonard shouted to him to descend, and make good his escape while there was yet time, adding that in a few moments it would be too late.

"I shall never quit it more," rejoined the enthusiast, in a voice of thunder, "but shall perish with the fire I have kindled. No monarch on earth ever lighted a nobler funeral pyre."

And as Leonard passed through the window, he disappeared along the gallery. Breaking through the crowd collected round Wingfield and Blaize, and calling to them to follow him, Leonard made his way to the north-east of the churchyard, where he found a large assemblage of persons, in the midst of which were the king, the Duke of York, Rochester, Arlington, and many others. As Leonard advanced, Charles discerned him amid the crowd, and motioned him to come forward. A passage was then cleared, for him, through which Wingfield and Blaize, who kept close beside him, were permitted to pass.

"I am glad to find no harm has happened to you, friend," said Charles, as he approached. "Rochester informed me you were gone to Newgate, and as the gaol had been burnt down, I feared you might have met with the same mishap. I now regret that I did not adopt your plan, but it may not be yet too late."

"It is not too late to save a portion of your city, sire," replied Leonard; "but, alas! how much is gone!"

"It is so," replied the king, mournfully.

Further conversation was here interrupted by the sudden breaking out of the fire from the magnificent rose window of the cathedral, the effect of which, being extraordinarily fine, attracted the monarch's attention. By this time Solomon Eagle had again ascended the roof, and making his way to the eastern extremity, clasped the great stone cross that terminated it with his left hand, while with his right he menaced the king and his party, uttering denunciations that were lost in the terrible roar prevailing around him. The flames now raged with a fierceness wholly inconceivable, considering the material they had to work upon. The molten lead poured down in torrents, and not merely flooded the whole interior of the fabric, but ran down in a wide and boiling stream almost as far as the Thames, consuming everything in its way, and rendering the very pavements red-hot. Every stone, spout, and gutter in the sacred pile, of which there were some hundreds, added to this fatal shower, and scattered destruction far and wide; nor will this be wondered at when it is considered that the quantity of lead thus melted covered a space of no less than six acres. Having burned with incredible fury and fierceness for some time, the whole roof of the sacred structure fell in at once, and with a crash heard at an amazing distance. After an instant's pause, the flames burst forth from every window in the fabric, producing such an intensity of heat, that the stone pinnacles, transom beams, and mullions split and cracked with a sound like volleys of artillery, shivering and flying in every direction. The whole interior of the pile was now one vast sheet of flame, which soared upwards, and consumed even the very stones. Not a vestige of the reverend structure was left untouched—its bells—its plate—its woodwork—its monuments—its mighty pillars—its galleries—its chapels—all, all were destroyed. The fire raged throughout all that night and the next day, till it had consumed all but the mere shell, and rendered the venerable cathedral—"one of the most ancient pieces of piety in the Christian world"—to use the words of Evelyn, a heap of ruin and ashes.

VIII.

HOW LEONARD RESCUED THE LADY ISABELLA.

The course of events having been somewhat anticipated in the last chapter, it will now be necessary to return to an earlier stage in the destruction of the cathedral, namely, soon after the furious bursting forth of the flames from the great eastern windows. While Leonard, in common with the rest of the assemblage, was gazing at this magnificent spectacle, he heard a loud cry of distress behind him, and turning at the sound, beheld Doctor Hodges rush forth from an adjoining house, the upper part of which was on fire, almost in a state of distraction. An elderly man and woman, and two or three female servants, all of whom were crying as loud as himself, followed him. But their screams fell on indifferent ears, for the crowd had become by this time too much accustomed to such appeals to pay any particular attention to them. Leonard, however, instantly rushed towards the doctor, and anxiously inquired what was the matter; the latter was so bewildered that he did not recognise the voice of the speaker, but gazing up at the house with an indescribable anguish, cried, "Merciful God! the flames have by this time reached her room—she will be burned—horror!"

"Who will be burned?" cried Leonard, seizing his arm, and gazing at him with a look of apprehension and anguish equal to his own—"Not the Lady Isabella?"

"Yes, Isabella," replied Hodges, regarding the speaker, and for the first time perceiving by whom he was addressed. "Not a moment is to be lost if you would save her from a terrible death. She was left in a fainting state in one of the upper rooms by a female attendant, who deserted her mistress to save herself. The staircase is on fire, or I myself would have saved her."

"A ladder! a ladder!" cried Leonard.

"Here is one," cried Wingfield, pointing to one propped against an adjoining house. And in another moment, by the combined efforts of the crowd, the ladder was brought and placed against the burning building.

"Which is the window?" cried Leonard.

"That on the right, on the second floor," replied Hodges. "Gracious Heaven! the flames are bursting from it."

But Leonard's foot was now on the ladder, and rushing up with inconceivable swiftness, he plunged through the window regardless of the flame. All those who witnessed this daring deed, regarded his destruction as certain, and even Hodges gave him up for lost. But the next moment he appeared at the window, bearing the fainting female form in his arms, and with extraordinary dexterity obtaining a firm footing and hold of the ladder, descended in safety. The shout that burst from such part of the assemblage as had witnessed this achievement, and its successful termination, attracted the king's attention, and he inquired the cause of the clamour.

"I will ascertain it for your majesty," replied Rochester, and proceeding to the group, he learnt, to his great satisfaction, what had occurred. Having gained this intelligence, he flew back to the king, and briefly explained the situation of the parties. Doctor Hodges, it appeared, had just removed to the house in question, which belonged to one of his patients, as a temporary asylum, and the Lady Isabella had accompanied him. She was in the upper part of the house when the fire broke out, and was so much terrified that she swooned away, in which condition her attendant left her; nor was the latter so much to blame as might appear, for the stairs were burning at the time, and a moment's delay would have endangered her own safety.

"Fate, indeed, seems to have brought these young persons together," replied Charles, as he listened to Rochester's recital, who took this opportunity of acquainting him with Lord Argentine's dying injunctions, "and it would be a pity to separate them."

"I am sure your majesty has no such intention," said Rochester.

"You will see," rejoined the monarch. And, as he spoke, he turned his horse's head, and moved towards the spot where Leonard was kneeling beside Isabella, and supporting her. Some restoratives having been applied by Doctor Hodges, she had regained her sensibility, and was murmuring her thanks to her deliverer.

"She has not lost her beauty, I perceive," cried Charles, gazing at her with admiration, and feeling something of his former passion revive within his breast.

"Your majesty, I trust, will not mar their happiness," said Rochester, noticing the monarch's libertine look with uneasiness. "Remember, you owe your life to that young man."

"And I will pay the debt royally," replied Charles; "I will give him permission to marry her."

"Your majesty's permission is scarcely needed," muttered Rochester.

"There you are wrong, my lord," replied the king. "She is now my ward, and I can dispose of her in marriage as I please; nor will I so dispose of her except to her equal in rank."

"I discern your majesty's gracious intentions," replied Rochester, gratefully inclining his head.

"I almost forget my deliverer's name," whispered Charles, with a smile, "but it is of no consequence, since he will so speedily change it."

"His name is Leonard Holt," replied Rochester, in the same tone.

"Ah!—true," returned the king. "What ho! good Master Leonard Holt," he added, addressing the young man, "commit the Lady Isabella Argentine to the care of our worthy friend Doctor Hodges for a moment, and stand up before me." His injunctions being complied with, he continued, "The Lady Isabella Argentine and I owe our lives to you, and we must both evince our gratitude—she by devoting that life, which, if I am not misinformed, she will be right willing to do, to you, and I by putting you in a position to unite yourself to her. The title of Argentine has been this day extinguished by most unhappy circumstances; I therefore confer the title on you, and here in this presence create you Baron Argentine, of Argentine, in Staffordshire. Your patent shall be made out with all convenient despatch, and with it you shall receive the hand of the sole representative of that ancient and noble house."

"Your majesty overwhelms me," replied Leonard, falling on his knee and pressing the king's hand, which was kindly extended towards him, to his lips. "I can scarcely persuade myself I am not in a dream."

"You will soon awaken to the sense of the joyful reality," returned the king. "Have I not now discharged my debt?" he added to Rochester.

"Right royally, indeed, my liege," replied the earl, in a tone of unaffected emotion. "My lord," he added, grasping Leonard's hand, "I sincerely congratulate you on your newly-acquired dignities, nor less in the happiness that awaits you there."

"If I do not answer you fittingly, my lord," replied the new-made peer, "it is not because I do not feel your kindness. But my brain reels. Pray Heaven my senses may not desert me."

"You must not forget the document you obtained this morning, my lord," replied Rochester, endeavouring to divert his thoughts into a new channel. "The proper moment for consulting it may have arrived."

Lord Argentine, for we shall henceforth give him his title, thrust his hand into his doublet, and drew forth the parchment. He opened it, and endeavoured to read it, but a mist swam before his eyes.

"Let me look at it," said Rochester, taking it from him. "It is a deed of gift," he said, after glancing at it for a moment, "from the late Lord Argentine—I mean the elder baron—of a large estate in Yorkshire, which he possessed in right of his wife, to you, my lord, here described as Leonard Holt, provided you shall marry the Lady Isabella Argentine. Another piece of good fortune. Again and again, I congratulate you."

"And now," said Charles, "other and less pleasing matters claim our attention. Let the Lady Isabella be removed, under the charge of Doctor Hodges, to Whitehall, where apartments shall be provided for her at once, together with fitting attendants, and where she can remain till this terrible conflagration is over which, I trust, soon will be, when I will no longer delay her happiness, but give her away in person. Chiffinch," he added to the chief page, "see all this is carried into effect."