"I will, my liege, and right willingly," replied Chiffinch.

"I would send you with her, my lord," pursued Charles to Argentine, "but I have other duties for you to fulfil. The plan you proposed of demolishing the houses with gunpowder shall be immediately put into operation, under your own superintendence."

A chair was now brought, and the Lady Isabella, after a tender parting with her lover, being placed within it, she was thus transported, under the charge of Hodges and Chiffinch, to Whitehall, where she arrived in safety, though not without having sustained some hindrance and inconvenience.

She had not been gone many minutes, when the conflagration of the cathedral assumed its most terrific character; the whole of the mighty roof falling in, and the flames soaring upwards, as before related. Up to this time, Solomon Eagle had maintained his position at the eastern end of the roof, and still grasped the stone cross. His situation now attracted universal attention, for it was evident he must speedily perish.

"Poor wretch!" exclaimed the king, shuddering, "I fear there is no way of saving him."

"None, whatever my liege," replied Rochester, "nor do I believe he would consent to it if there were. But he is again menacing your majesty."

As Rochester spoke, Solomon Eagle shook his arm menacingly at the royal party, raising it aloft, as if invoking the vengeance of Heaven. He then knelt down upon the sloping ridge of the roof, as if in prayer, and his figure, thus seen relieved against the mighty sheet of flame, might have been taken for an image of Saint John the Baptist carved in stone. Not an eye in the vast crowd below but was fixed on him. In a few moments he rose again, and tossing his arms aloft, and shrieking, in a voice distinctly heard above the awful roar around him, the single word "Resurgam!" flung himself headlong into the flaming abyss. A simultaneous cry of horror rose from the whole assemblage on beholding this desperate action.

"The last exclamation of the poor wretch may apply to the cathedral, as well as to himself," remarked the monarch, to a middle-aged personage, with a pleasing and highly intellectual countenance, standing near him: "for the old building shall rise again, like a phoenix from its fires, with renewed beauty, and under your superintendence, Doctor Christopher Wren."

The great architect bowed. "I cannot hope to erect such another structure," he said, modestly; "but I will endeavour to design an edifice that shall not disgrace your majesty's city."

"You must build me another city at the same time, Doctor Wren," sighed the king. "Ah!" he added, "is not that Mr. Lilly, the almanac-maker, whom I see among the crowd?"

"It is," replied Rochester.

"Bid him come to me," replied the king. And the order being obeyed, he said to the astrologer, "Well, Mr. Lilly, your second prediction has come to pass. We have had the Plague, and now we have the Fire. You may thank my clemency that I do not order you to be cast into the flames, like the poor wretch who has just perished before our eyes, as a wizard and professor of the black art. How did you obtain information of these fatal events?"

"By a careful study of the heavenly bodies, sire," replied Lilly, "and by long and patient calculations, which, if your majesty or any of your attendants had had leisure or inclination to make, would have afforded you the same information. I make no pretence to the gift of prophecy, but this calamity was predicted in the last century."

"Indeed! by whom?" asked the king.

"By Michael Nostradamus," replied Lilly; "his prediction runs thus:—

'La sang du juste a Londres fera faute, Bruslez par feu, le vingt et trois, les Six; La Dame antique cherra de place haute, De meme secte plusieurs seront occis.'[1]

And thus I venture to explain it. The 'blood of the just' refers to the impious and execrable murder of your majesty's royal father of blessed memory. 'Three-and-twenty and six' gives the exact year of the calamity; and it may likewise give us, as will be seen by computation hereafter, the amount of habitations to be destroyed. The 'Ancient Dame' undoubtedly refers to the venerable pile now burning before us, which, as it stands in the most eminent spot in the city, clearly 'falls from its high place.' The expression 'of the same sect' refers not to men, but churches, of which a large number, I grieve to say it, are already destroyed."

[Footnote 1:

'The blood of the just shall be wanting in London, Burnt by fire of three-and-twenty, the Six; The ancient Dame shall fall from her high place, Of the same sect many shall be killed.']

"The prophecy is a singular one," remarked Charles, musingly "and you have given it a plausible interpretation." And for some moments he appeared lost in reflection. Suddenly rousing himself, he took forth his tablets, and hastily tracing a few lines upon a leaf, tore it out, and delivered it with his signet-ring to Lord Argentine. "Take this, my lord," he said, "to Lord Craven. You will find him at his post in Tower-street. A band of my attendants shall go with you. Embark at the nearest stairs you can—those at Blackfriars I should conceive the most accessible. Bid the men row for their lives. As soon as you join Lord Craven, commence operations. The Tower must be preserved at all hazards. Mark me!—at all hazards."

"I understand your majesty," replied Argentine—"your commands shall be implicitly obeyed. And if the conflagration has not gone too far, I will answer with my life that I preserve the fortress." And he departed on his mission.

IX.

WHAT BEFEL CHOWLES AND JUDITH IN THE VAULTS OF SAINT FAITH'S.

Having now seen what occurred outside Saint Paul's, we shall proceed to the vaults beneath it. Chowles and Judith, it has been mentioned, were descried by Leonard, just before the outbreak of the fire, stealing into Saint Faith's, and carrying a heavy chest between them. This chest contained some of the altar-plate, which they had pillaged from the Convocation House. As they traversed the aisles of Saint Faith's, which were now filled with books and paper, they could distinctly hear the raging of the fire without, and Judith, who was far less intimidated than her companion, observed, "Let it roar on. It cannot injure us."

"I am not so sure of that," replied Chowles, doubtfully, "I wish we had taken our hoards elsewhere."

"There is no use in wishing that now," rejoined Judith. "And it would have been wholly impossible to get them out of the city. But have no fear. The fire, I tell you, cannot reach us. It could as soon burn into the solid earth as into this place."

"It comforts me to hear you say so," replied Chowles. "And when I think of those mighty stone floors above us, I feel we are quite safe. No, no, it can never make its way through them."

Thus discoursing, they reached the charnel at the further end of the church, where Chowles struck a light, and producing a flask of strong waters, took a copious draught himself and handed the flask to Judith, who imitated his example. Their courage being thus stimulated, they opened the chest, and Chowles was so enraptured with its glittering contents that he commenced capering round the vault. Recalled to quietude by a stern reproof from Judith, he opened a secret door in the wall, and pushed the chest into a narrow passage beyond it. Fearful of being discovered in their retreat, they took a basket of provisions and liquor with them, and then closed the door. For some time, they proceeded along the passage, pushing the chest before them, until they came to a descent of a few steps, which brought them to a large vault, half-filled with bags of gold, chests of plate, caskets, and other plunder. At the further end of this vault was a strong wooden door. Pushing the chest into the middle of the chamber, Chowles seated himself upon it, and opening the basket of provisions, took out the bottle of spirits, and again had recourse to it.

"How comfortable and secure we feel in this quiet place," he said; "while all above us is burning. I declare I feel quite merry, ha! ha!" And he forced a harsh and discordant laugh.

"Give me the bottle," rejoined Judith, sternly, "and don't grin like a death's head. I don't like to see the frightful face you make."

"It's the first time you ever thought my face frightful," replied Chowles, "and I begin to think you are afraid."

"Afraid!" echoed Judith, forcing a derisive laugh in her turn; "afraid—of what?"

"Nay, I don't know," replied Chowles; "only I feel a little uncomfortable. What if we should not be able to breathe here? The very idea gives me a tightness across the chest."

"Silence!" cried Judith, with a fierceness that effectually insured obedience to her command.

Chowles again had recourse to the bottle, and deriving a false courage from it, as before, commenced skipping about the chamber in his usual fantastical manner. Judith, did not attempt to check him, but remained with her chin resting upon her hand gazing at him.

"Do you remember the Dance of Death, Judith?" he cried, executing some of the wildest flourishes he had then performed, "and how I surprised the Earl of Rochester and his crew?"

"I do," replied Judith, sternly, "and I hope we may not soon have to perform that dance together in reality."

"It was a merry night," rejoined Chowles, who did not hear what she said, "a right merry night—and so to-night shall be, in spite of what is occurring overhead. Ha! ha!" And he took another long pull at the flask. "I breathe freely now." And he continued his wild flourishes until he was completely exhausted. He then sat down by Judith, and would have twined his bony arms round her neck, but she roughly repulsed him.

With a growl of displeasure, he then proceeded to open and examine the various bags, chests, and caskets piled upon the floor, and the sight of their contents so excited Judith, that shaking off her misgivings, she joined him, and they continued opening case after case, glutting their greedy eyes, until Chowles became aware that the vault was filled with smoke. As soon as he perceived this, he started to his feet in terror.

"We are lost—we shall be suffocated!" he cried! Judith likewise arose, and her looks showed that she shared in his apprehensions.

"We must not stay here," cried Chowles; "and yet," he added, with an agonised look at the rich store before him, "the treasure! the treasure!"

"Ay, let us, at least, take something with us," rejoined Judith, snatching up two or three of the most valuable caskets.

While Chowles gazed at the heap before him, hesitating what to select, the smoke grew so dense around them, that Judith seized his arm, and dragged him away. "I come—I come!" he cried, snatching up a bag of gold.

They then threaded the narrow passage, Judith leading the way and bearing the light. The smoke grew thicker and thicker as they advanced; but regardless of this, they hurried to the secret door leading to the charnel. Judith touched the spring, but as she did so, a sheet of flame burst in and drove her back. Chowles dashed passed her, and with great presence of mind shut the door, excluding the flame. They then hastily retraced their steps, feeling that not a moment was to be lost if they would escape. The air in the vault, thickened by the smoke, had become so hot that they could scarcely breathe; added to which, to increase their terror, they heard the most awful cracking of the walls overhead, as if the whole fabric were breaking asunder to its foundation.

"The cathedral is tumbling upon us! We shall be buried alive!" exclaimed Chowles, as he listened with indescribable terror to the noise overhead!

"I owe my death to you, wretch!" cried Judith, fiercely. "You persuaded me to come hither."

"I!" cried Chowles. "It is a lie! You were the person who proposed it. But for you I should have left our hoards here, and come for them after the fire was over."

"It is you who lie!" returned Judith, with increased fury, "that was my proposal."

"Hold your tongue, you she-devil," cried Chowles, "it is you who have brought me into this strait—and if you do not cease taunting me, I will silence you for ever."

"Coward and fool!" cried Judith, "I will at least have the satisfaction of seeing you die before me."

And as she spoke, she rushed towards him, and a desperate struggle commenced. And thus while the walls were cracking overhead, threatening them with instant destruction, the two wretches continued their strife, uttering the most horrible blasphemies and execrations. Judith, being the stronger of the two, had the advantage, and she had seized her opponent by the throat with the intention of strangling him, when a most terrific crash was heard causing her to loose her gripe. The air instantly became as hot as the breath of a furnace, and both started to their feet. "What has happened?" gasped Chowles.

"I know not," replied Judith, "and I dare not look down the passage."

"Then I will," replied Chowles, and he advanced a few paces up it, and then hastily returned, shrieking, "it is filled with boiling lead, and the stream is flowing towards us."

Scarcely able to credit the extent of the danger, Judith gazed down the passage, and there beheld a glowing silvery stream trickling slowly onwards. She saw too well, that if they could not effect their retreat instantly, their fate was sealed.

"The door of the vault!" she cried, pointing towards it, "where is the key? where is the key?"

"I have not got it," replied Chowles, distractedly, "I cannot tell where to find it."

"Then we are lost!" cried Judith, with a terrible execration.

"Not so," replied Chowles, snatching up a pickaxe, "if I cannot unlock the door, I can break it open."

With this, he commenced furiously striking against it, while Judith, who was completely horror-stricken, and filled with the conviction that her last moments were at hand, fell on her knees beside him, and gazing down the passage, along which she could see the stream of molten lead, now nearly a foot in depth, gradually advancing, and hissing as it came, shrieked to Chowles to increase his exertions. He needed no incitement to do so, but nerved by fear, continued to deal blow after blow against the door, until at last he effected a small breach just above the lock. But this only showed him how vain were his hopes, for a stream of fire and smoke poured through the aperture. Notwithstanding this, he continued his exertions, Judith shrieking all the time, until the lock at last yielded. He then threw open the door, but finding the whole passage involved in flame, was obliged to close it. Judith had now risen, and their looks at each other at this fearful moment were terrible in the extreme. Retreating to either side of the cell, they glared at each other like wild beasts. Suddenly, Judith casting her eyes to the entrance of the vault, uttered a yell of terror, that caused her companion to look in that direction, and he perceived that the stream of molten lead had gained it, and was descending the steps. He made a rush towards the door at the same time with Judith, and another struggle ensued, in which he succeeded in dashing her upon the floor. He again opened the door, but was again driven backwards by the terrific flame, and perceived that the fiery current had reached Judith, who was writhing and shrieking in its embrace. Before Chowles could again stir, it was upon him. With a yell of anguish, he fell forward, and was instantly stifled in the glowing torrent, which in a short time flooded the whole chamber, burying the two partners in iniquity, and the whole of their ill-gotten gains, in its burning waves.

X.

CONCLUSION.

Lord Argentine proceeded, as directed by the king, to the eastern end of Tower-street, where he found Lord Craven, and having delivered him the king's missive, and shown him the signet, they proceeded to the western side of the Tower Dock, and having procured a sufficient number of miners and engineers, together with a supply of powder from the fortress, commenced undermining the whole of the row of habitations called Tower-bank, on the edge of the dock, having first, it is scarcely necessary to state, taken care to clear them of their inhabitants. The powder deposited, the trains were fired, and the buildings blown into the air. At this time the whole of the western side of the Tower Moat was covered with low wooden houses and sheds, and, mindful of the king's instructions, Lord Argentine suggested to Lord Craven that they should be destroyed. The latter acquiescing, they proceeded to their task, and in a short time the whole of the buildings of whatever description, from the bulwark-gate to the city postern, at the north of the Tower, and nearly opposite the Bowyer Tower, were destroyed. Long before this was accomplished they were joined by the Duke of York, who lent his utmost assistance to the task, and when night came on, a clear space of at least a hundred yards in depth, had been formed between the ancient fortress and the danger with which it was threatened.

Meantime the conflagration continued to rage with unabated fury. It burnt throughout the whole of Monday night, and having destroyed Saint Paul's, as before related, poured down Ludgate-hill, consuming all in its way, and, crossing Fleet Bridge, commenced its ravages upon the great thoroughfare adjoining it. On Tuesday an immense tract was on fire. All Fleet-street, as far as the Inner Temple, Ludgate-hill, and the whole of the city eastwards, along the banks of the Thames, up to the Tower Dock, where the devastation was checked by the vast gap of houses demolished, were in flames. From thence the boundary of the fire extended to the end of Mark-lane, Lime-street, and Leadenhall, the strong walls of which resisted its fury. Ascending again by the Standard on Cornhill, Threadneedle-street, and Austin Friars, it embraced Drapers' Hall, and the whole mass of buildings to the west of Throgmorton-street. It next proceeded to the then new buildings behind Saint Margaret's, Lothbury, and so on westward to the upper end of Cateaton-street, whence it spread to the second postern in London Wall, and destroying the ramparts and suburbs as far as Cripplegate, consumed Little Wood-street, Mungwell-street, and the whole of the city wall on the west as far as Aldersgate. Passing a little to the north of Saint Sepulchre's, which it destroyed, it crossed Holborn Bridge, and ascending Saint Andrew's-hill, passed the end of Shoe-lane, and so on to the end of Fetter-lane. The whole of the buildings contained within this boundary were now on fire, and burning with terrific fury. And so they continued till the middle of Wednesday, when the wind abating, and an immense quantity of houses being demolished according to Lord Argentine's plan, the conflagration was got under; and though it broke out in several places after that time, little mischief was done, and it may be said to have ceased on the middle of that day.

On Saturday morning in that week, soon after daybreak, a young man, plainly yet richly attired in the habiliments then worn by persons of high rank, took his way over the smouldering heaps of rubbish, and along the ranks of ruined and blackened walls denoting the habitations that had once constituted Fleet-street. It was with no little risk, and some difficulty, that he could force his way, now clambering over heaps of smouldering ashes, now passing by some toppling wall, which fell with a terrific crash after he had just passed it—now creeping under an immense pile of blackened rafters; but he at length reached Fleet Bridge, where he paused to gaze at the scene of devastation around him.

It was indeed a melancholy sight, and drew tears to his eyes. The ravages of the fire were almost inconceivable. Great beams were burnt to charcoal—stones calcined, and as white as snow, and such walls and towers as were left standing were so damaged that their instant fall was to be expected. The very water in the wells and fountains was boiling, and even the muddy Fleet sent forth a hot steam. The fire still lingered in the lower parts of many habitations, especially where wine, spirits, or inflammable goods had been kept; and these "voragos of subterranean cellars," as Evelyn terms them, still emitted flames, together with a prodigious smoke and stench. Undismayed by the dangers of the path he had to traverse, the young man ascended Ludgate-hill, still encountering the same devastation, and passing through the ruined gateway, the end of which remained perfect, approached what had once been Saint Paul's Cathedral. Mounting a heap of rubbish at the end of Ludgate street, he gazed at the mighty ruin, which looked more like the remains of a city than those of a single edifice.

The solid walls and buttresses were split and rent asunder; enormous stones were splintered and calcined by the heat; and vast flakes having scaled from off the pillars, gave them a hoary and almost ghostly appearance. Its enormous extent was now for the first time clearly seen, and, strange to say it looked twice as large in ruins as when entire. The central tower was still standing, but chipped, broken, and calcined, like the rest of the structure, by the vehement heat of the flames. Part of the roof, in its fall, broke through the solid floor of the choir, which was of immense thickness, into Saint Faith's, and destroyed the magazine of books and paper deposited there by the booksellers. The portico, erected by Inigo Jones, and which found so much favour in Evelyn's eyes, that he describes it as "comparable to any in Europe," and particularly deplores its loss, shared the fate of the rest of the building—the only part left uninjured being the architrave, the inscription on which was undefaced.

Having satiated himself with this sad but striking prospect, the young man, with some toil and trouble, crossed the churchyard, and gained Cheapside, where a yet more terrific scene of devastation than that which he had previously witnessed burst upon him. On the right of London Bridge, which he could discern through the chasms of the houses, and almost to the Tower, were nothing but ruins, while a similar waste lay on the left. Such was the terrible change that had been wrought in the aspect of the ruined city, that if the young man had not had some marks to guide him, he would not have known where he was. The tower and ruined walls of Saint Peter's Church pointed out to him the entrance to Wood-street, and, entering it, he traversed it with considerable difficulty—for the narrow thoroughfares were much fuller of rubbish, and much less freed from smoke and fiery vapour, than the wider—until he reached a part of it with which he had once been well acquainted. But, alas! how changed was that familiar spot. The house he sought was a mere heap of ruins. While gazing at them, he heard a voice behind him, and turning, beheld Mr. Bloundel and his son Stephen, forcing their way through what had once been Maiden-lane. A warm greeting passed between them, and Mr. Bloundel gazed for some time in silence upon the wreck of his dwelling. Tears forced themselves into his eyes, and his companions were no less moved. As he turned to depart, he observed to the young man with some severity:

"How is it, Leonard, that I see you in this gay apparel? Surely, the present is not a fitting season for such idle display."

Lord Argentine, for such it was, now explained to the wonder-stricken grocer all that had occurred to him, adding that he had intended coming to him that very day, if he had not been thus anticipated, to give him the present explanation.

"And where are Farmer Wingfield and Blaize?" asked Mr. Bloundel. "We have been extremely uneasy at your prolonged absence."

"They are both at the palace," replied Lord Argentine, "and have both been laid up with slight injuries received during the conflagration; but I believe—nay, I am sure—they will get out to-day."

"That is well," replied Mr. Bloundel; "and now let me congratulate you, Leonard—that is, my lord—how strange such a title sounds!—on your new dignity.

"And accept my congratulations, too, my lord," said Stephen.

"Oh! do not style me thus," said Argentine. "With you, at least, let me be ever Leonard Holt."

"You are still my old apprentice, I see," cried the grocer, warmly grasping his hand.

"And such I shall ever continue in feeling," returned the other, cordially returning the pressure.

Three days after this, Lord Argentine was united to the Lady Isabella.—the king, as he had promised, giving away the bride. The Earl of Rochester was present, together with the grocer and his wife, and the whole of their family. Another marriage also took place on the same day between Blaize and Patience. Both unions, it is satisfactory to be able to state, were extremely happy, though it would be uncandid not to mention, that in the latter case, to use a homely but expressive phrase, "the grey mare proved the better horse." Blaize, however, was exceedingly content under his government. He settled at Willesden with his wife, where they lived to a good old age, and where some of his descendants may still be found.

Mr. Bloundel sustained only a trifling loss by the fire. Another house was erected on the site of the old habitation, where he carried on his business as respectably and as profitably as before, until, in the course of nature, he was gathered to his fathers, and succeeded by his son Stephen, leaving an unblemished character behind him as a legacy to his family. Nor was it his only legacy, in a worldly sense, for his time had not been misspent, and he had well-husbanded his money. All his family turned out well, and were successful in the world. Stephen rose to the highest civic dignities, and the younger obtained great distinction. Their daughter Christiana became Lady Argentine, being wedded to the eldest son of the baron and baroness.

Mike Macascree, the piper, and Bell, found a happy asylum with the same noble family.

As to Lord and Lady Argentine, theirs was a life of uninterrupted happiness. Devotedly attached to her lord, the Lady Isabella seemed only to live for him, and he well repaid her affection. By sedulously cultivating his talents and powers, which were considerable, he was enabled to reflect credit upon the high rank to which it had pleased a grateful sovereign to elevate him. He lived to see the new cathedral completed by Sir Christopher Wren, and often visited it with feelings of admiration, but never with the same sentiments of veneration and awe that he had experienced when, in times long gone by, he had repaired to OLD SAINT PAUL'S.

THE END.