"You have shot your own son, Mr. Westwood," cried one of the spectators, rushing up to the fallen man. "Who will henceforth doubt that Solomon Eagle is under the care of a special providence?"

"Not I," replied another spectator. "I shall never disregard his words in future."

Setting down his brazier, the enthusiast bent over the dead man—for dead he was—and noted the placid smile upon his features. By this time the unfortunate father had joined the group, and, on seeing the body of his son, wrung his hands in a pitiable manner, and gave utterance to the wildest expression of despair. No one attempted to seize him, till at length Solomon Eagle, rising from his kneeling posture, laid his hand upon his arm, and regarding him sternly, said, "What wrong have I done you, that you should seek to slay me?"

"What wrong?" rejoined Westwood—"such wrong as can never be repaired. Your fearful prophecies and denunciations so terrified my daughter, that she died distracted. My brokenhearted wife was not long in following her; and now you have made me the murderer of my son. Complete the tragedy, and take my life."

"I have no desire to do so," replied Solomon Eagle, in a tone of commiseration. "My wish is to save your soul, and the souls of all who listen to me. I wonder not that your anger was at first stirred against me; but if your heart had been properly directed, indignation would have soon given way to better feelings. My mission is not to terrify, but to warn. Why will ye thus continue impenitent when ye are spoken to, not by my voice alone, but by a thousand others?—by the thunder—by the rain—by the pestilence!—and ye shall be spoken to, if ye continue senseless, by fire and by famine. Look at these quenched embers—at these flooded streets—they are types of your vain struggle with a superior power. Now, mark me what you must do to free the city from contagion. You must utterly and for ever abandon your evil courses. You must pray incessantly for remission of your sins. You must resign yourselves without repining to such chastisement as you have provoked, and must put your whole trust and confidence in God. Do this, and do it heartily; it is possible that His wrath may be averted."

"I feel the force of your words," faltered Westwood—"would I had felt it sooner!"

"Repentance never comes too late," rejoined the enthusiast. "Let this be an example to you all."

And snatching up his brazier, he continued his course at the same lightning speed as before. The unfortunate father was taken into his own dwelling, whither likewise the body of his son was conveyed. A strict watch was kept over him during the night, and in the morning he was removed to Newgate, where he perished, in less than a week, of the distemper.

The aspect of the streets on the following day was deplorable enough. Not that the weather was unfavourable. On the contrary, it was bright and sunny, while the heated atmosphere, cooled, by the showers, felt no longer oppressive. But the sight of the half-burnt fires struck a chill into every bosom, and it was not until the heaps were removed, that the more timorous ventured forth at all. The result, too, of the experiment was singularly unfortunate. Whether it was from the extraordinary heat occasioned by the lighting of so many fires, or that the smoke did not ascend, and so kept down the pestilential effluvia, or that the number of persons who met together spread the contagion, certain it was that the pestilence was more widely extended than before, and the mortality fearfully increased.

On the commencement of the storm, Leonard Holt hurried back to Wood-street, and reached his master's dwelling just as the rain began to descend in torrents. Mr. Bloundel was at the window, and a few words only passed between him and the apprentice when the latter was compelled to take refuge in the hutch. Here he found Dallison the watchman, and they listened in awe-struck silence to the heavy showers, and to the hissing of the blazing embers in their struggle against the hostile element. By-and-by the latter sound ceased. Not a light could be seen throughout the whole length of the street, nor was there any red reflection of the innumerable fires as heretofore in the sky. It was evident all were extinguished; and the pitiless pelting of the rain, the roar of the water-spouts, and the rush of the over-filled kennels, now converted into rivulets, could alone be heard After awhile the storm cleared off, and Leonard and his companion issued from their retreat, and gazed in silence at the drenched heap before them. While thus occupied, the window above them opened, and the grocer appeared at it.

"This is, indeed, a sad and striking lesson," he said, "and I hope will not be lost upon those who have witnessed it. It shows the utter impotency of a struggle against the Divine will, and that when a man relies upon himself for preservation, he depends upon a broken reed. If I did not place myself under Heaven's protection, I should be sure that all my own precautions were unavailing. I am now about to call up my family to prayer. You can join us in our supplications, and I trust they will not be unheard."

Closing the window, the grocer retired, and Leonard returned to the hutch, where he fell upon his knees, and as soon as he supposed the family were gathered together, commenced his own prayers. He pictured the whole group assembled—the fervour of the grocer excited to an unwonted pitch by what had just occurred—the earnest countenances of his wife and the younger children—and the exalted looks of Amabel. He could not see her—neither could he hear her voice—but he fancied how she looked, and in what terms she prayed—and it was no slight satisfaction to him to think that his own voice ascended to Heaven coupled with hers.

On quitting the hutch, he found Dallison conversing with Doctor Hodges. The physician expressed great surprise at seeing him, and inquired how he came to have left his master's house. Leonard related all that had happened, and besought his assistance in Nizza's behalf.

"I will do all I can for her," replied Hodges, "for I feel greatly interested about her. But who is this Sir Paul Parravicin? I never heard of him."

"I know nothing more of him than what I have told you, sir," replied Leonard. "He is a friend of the Earl of Rochester."

"It must be a feigned name," rejoined Hodges; "but I will speedily find him out. You must lodge at my house tonight. It will be better for you than sleeping in that damp shed. But, first, I must have a word or two with your master. I have been abroad all night, and came hither to ascertain what he thought of this plan of the fires, and what he had done. How do you give the signal to him?"

"There is a cord within the hutch by which you can sound a bell within his chamber," returned Leonard; "I will ring it."

Accordingly, he did so, and the summons was almost instantly answered by the grocer. A kindly greeting passed between the latter and Hodges, who inquired whether all was going on satisfactorily within, and whether anything could be done for the family.

"I would not have disturbed you at this unseasonable hour," he said, "but chancing to be in your neighbourhood, and thinking it likely you would be on the watch, I called to have a word with you. Though I could not foresee what would happen, I entirely disapproved of these fires as likely to increase rather than check the pestilence."

"The hand of Heaven has extinguished them because they were lighted in opposition to its decrees," replied Bloundel; "but you have asked me whether all is going on well within. I should answer readily in the affirmative, but that my wife expresses much anxiety respecting Amabel. We have no longer any apprehension of misconduct. She is all we could desire—serious and devout. But we have fears for her health. The confinement may be too much for her. What would you recommend?"

"I must see her to be able to speak confidently," replied Hodges.

"I know not how that can be accomplished, unless you choose to ascend by a basket attached to the pulley," replied the grocer, with some hesitation, "and it is against my plan to admit you."

"But your daughter's life, my good friend," rejoined Hodges; "think of that. If I choose to risk life and limb to visit her, you may surely risk the chance of contagion to admit me. But you need have no fear. Sprinkle your room with spirits of sulphur, and place a phial of vinegar so that I can use it on my first entrance into the house, and I will answer for the safety of your family."

These preparations made, Mr. Bloundel lowered the basket, into which Hodges got, and grasping the rope, not without some misgiving on his part, he was drawn up. Leonard witnessed his ascent with a beating heart, and could scarcely repress a feeling of envy when he saw him pass through the window, and knew that he would soon be in the presence of Amabel. But this feeling quickly changed into one of deep anxiety concerning her. Her father's account of her had increased the uneasiness he previously felt, and he was as anxious to know the doctor's opinion of her, as if his own fate had depended upon it. He was kept in this painful state of suspense for nearly an hour, when voices were heard at the window, and presently afterwards Hodges was carefully let down. Bidding the grocer farewell, he desired Leonard to follow him, and led the way towards Cheapside. They proceeded a short distance in silence, when the latter ventured to remark, "You say nothing about Amabel, sir? I fear you found her seriously indisposed."

"Do not question me about her just now," rejoined the doctor, in a subdued emotion. "I would rather not discuss the subject."

Nothing more was said; for though the apprentice would willingly have continued the conversation, his companion's evident disinclination to pursue it compelled him to desist. In this way, they reached the doctor's residence, where Leonard was immediately shown to a comfortable bed.

It was late when he awoke next day, and as the doctor was gone forth, he partook of a plentiful breakfast which was placed before him, and repaired to Wood-street, but his master having no commissions for him to execute, he went back again. By this time, Doctor Hodges had returned, and calling him into his library told him he wished to speak with him.

"You were right last night," he said, "in construing my silence into alarm for Amabel. In truth, I fear she is rapidly sinking into a decline, and nothing will arrest the progress of the insidious disease but instant removal to the country. To this she will not consent, neither do I know how it could be accomplished. It is pitiable to see so lovely a creature dying, as I fear she is, of a broken heart."

Leonard covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud.

"We have not yet spoken of Nizza Macascree," said Hodges, after a pause, tapping him kindly on the shoulder. "I think I have discovered a trace of her."

"I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard, rousing himself. "She is another victim of these profligates. But I will be revenged upon them all."

"I have before enjoined you to restrain your indignation, just though it be," returned Hodges. "I have not yet found out whither she has been taken. But I have a clue which, unless I am mistaken, will lead me to it. But I must now dismiss you, I have other affairs to attend to, and must give a dangerous and difficult case, on which I have been consulted, undisturbed consideration. Make my house your home as long as you think proper."

Warmly thanking the doctor, Leonard then withdrew. Shortly after this, he walked forth, and ascertaining that he was not required by his master, determined to satisfy himself by actual observation of the extent of the ravages of the plague.

With this view, he shaped his course along Lad-lane, and traversing Cateaton-street, entered Lothbury. The number of houses which he here found closed, with red crosses on the doors, and the fatal inscription above them, convinced him that the deplorable accounts he had heard were not exaggerated. In passing some of these habitations, he saw such ghastly faces at the windows, and heard such lamentable cries, that he was glad to hurry on and get out of sight and hearing. In Throgmorton-street, nearly opposite Drapers' Hall, a poor wretch suddenly opened a casement, and before his attendants could force him back, threw himself from a great height to the ground, and broke his neck. Another incident, of an equally distressing nature, occurred. A young and richly-dressed young man issued from a tavern in Broad-street, and with a wild and inflamed countenance, staggered along. He addressed some insulting language to Leonard, but the latter, who desired no quarrel, disregarded his remarks, and let him pass. The next person encountered by the drunken man was a young female. Suddenly catching her in his arms, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips: and then, with a frightful laugh, shouted, "I have given you the plague! Look here!" and tearing aside the collar of his shirt, he exhibited a large tumour. The young woman uttered a shriek of terror and fainted, while her ruthless assailant took to his heels, and running as long as his strength lasted, fell down, and was taken to the pest-house, where he was joined that same night by his victim. And this was by no means an uncommon occurrence. The distemper acted differently on different temperaments. Some it inflamed to an ungovernable pitch of madness, others it reduced to the depths of despair, while in many cases it brought out and aggravated the worst parts of the character. Wives conveyed the infection intentionally to their husbands, husbands to their wives, parents to their children, lovers to the objects of their affection, while, as in the case above mentioned, many persons ran about like rabid hounds, striving to communicate it to all they met. Greatly shocked at what had occurred, and yet not altogether surprised at it, for his mind had become familiarized with horrors, Leonard struck down Finch-lane, and proceeded towards Cornhill. On the way, he noticed two dead bodies lying at the mouth of a small alley, and hastening past, was stopped at the entrance to Cornhill by a butcher's apprentice, who was wheeling away the body of an old man, who had just died while purchasing meat at a stall at Stock's Market. Filled with unutterable loathing at this miserable spectacle, Leonard was fain to procure a glass of canary to recruit his spirits.

Accordingly he proceeded to the Globe Tavern at the corner of Birchin-lane. As he entered the house, a lively strain of music caught his ear, and glancing in the direction of the sound, he found it proceeded from the blind piper, Mike Macascree, who was playing to some half-dozen roystering youths. Bell lay at her master's feet; and as Leonard approached the party, she pricked up her ears, and being called by name, instantly sprang towards him, and manifested the strongest delight. The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass.

"Don't drink any more, Mike," said Leonard, "but step aside with me. I've something to say to you—something about your daughter."

"My daughter!" exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids. "I don't want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead. She has deserted me, and disgraced herself."

"You are mistaken," rejoined Leonard; "and if you will come with me, I will explain the truth to you."

"I will listen to no explanation," rejoined the piper, furiously, "she has given me pain enough already. I'm engaged with this jovial company. Fill my glass, my masters—there, fill it again," he added, draining it eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought. "There, now you shall have such a tune, as was never listened to by mortal ears."

A loud laugh from the young men followed this proposition, and the piper played away so furiously, that it added to their merriment. Touched with compassion, Leonard walked aside, hoping, when the party broke up, to be able to have a word with the poor man. But the piper's excitement increased. He played faster and drank harder, until it was evident he was no longer in a condition to speak rationally. Leonard, therefore, addressed himself to the drawer, and desired him to look after the piper, engaging to return before midnight to see how he went on. The drawer promising compliance, Leonard departed; and not feeling disposed to continue his walk, returned to Wood-street.

Nothing particular occurred during the evening. Leonard did not see Doctor Hodges, who was engaged in his professional duties; and after keeping watch before the grocer's till nearly midnight, he again retraced his steps to the Globe. The drawer was at the door, and about to close the house.

"You will be sorry to learn the fate of the poor piper," he said.

"Why, what has happened to him?" cried Leonard.

"He is dead of the plague," was the reply.

"What, so suddenly!" exclaimed the apprentice. "You are jesting with me."

"Alas! it is no jest," rejoined the drawer, in a tone that convinced the apprentice of his sincerity. "His entertainers quitted him about two hours ago, and in spite of my efforts to detain him, he left the house, and sat down on those steps. Concluding he would fall asleep, I did not disturb him, and his dog kept careful watch over him. I forgot all about him till a short time ago, when hearing the pest-cart pass, I went forth, and learnt that the drivers having found him dead, as they supposed, of the pestilence, had placed their forks under his belt, and thrown him upon the other dead bodies."

"And where is the dog?" cried Leonard.

"She would not quit her master," replied the drawer, "so the men threw her into the cart with him, saying, they would bury her in the plague-pit, as all dogs were ordered to be destroyed."

"This must be prevented," cried Leonard. "Which way did the dead-cart go?"

"Towards Moorgate," replied the drawer.

Leonard heard no more; but dashing through a narrow passage opposite the Conduit, passed Bartholomew-lane, and traversing Lothbury, soon reached Coleman-street and the old city gate, to which he had been directed. Here he learnt that the dead-cart had passed through it about five minutes before, and he hurried on towards Finsbury Fields. He had not proceeded far when he heard a sound as of a pipe at a distance, furiously played, and accompanied by the barking of a dog. These sounds were followed by cries of alarm, and he presently perceived two persons running towards him, with a swiftness which only could be occasioned by terror. One of them carried a lantern, and grasping his arm, the apprentice detained him.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"The devil's the matter," replied the man—"the piper's ghost has appeared in that cart, and is playing his old tunes again."

"Ay, it's either his spirit, or he is come to life again," observed the other man, stopping likewise. "I tossed him into the cart myself, and will swear he was dead enough then."

"You have committed a dreadful mistake," cried Leonard. "You have tossed a living man into the cart instead of a dead one. Do you not hear those sounds?" And as he spoke, the notes of the pipe swelled to a louder strain than ever.

"I tell you it is the devil—or a ghost," replied the driver; "I will stay here no longer."

"Lend me your lantern, and I will go to the cart," rejoined Leonard.

"Take it," replied the man; "but I caution you to stay where you are. You may receive a shock you will never survive."

Paying no attention to what was said, Leonard ran towards the cart, and found the piper seated upon a pile of dead bodies, most of them stripped of their covering, with Bell by his side, and playing away at a prodigious rate.

III.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

The condition of the prisons at this season was really frightful. In Newgate, in particular, where the distemper broke out at the beginning of June, it raged with such violence that in less than a week, more than half the prisoners were swept off, and it appeared probable, that, unless its fury abated, not a soul would be left alive within it. At all times, this crowded and ill-kept prison was infested by the gaol-fever and other pestilential disorders, but these were mild in comparison with the present terrible visitation. The atmosphere was noisome and malignant; the wards were never cleansed; and many poor wretches, who died in their cells, were left there till the attendants on the dead-cart chose to drag them forth. No restraint being placed upon the sick, and the rules of the prison allowing them the free use of any strong liquors they could purchase, the scenes that occurred were too dreadful and revolting for description, and could only be paralleled by the orgies of a pandemonium. Many reckless beings, conscious that they were attacked by a fatal disorder, drank as long as they could raise the' cup to their lips, and after committing the wildest and most shocking extravagances, died in a state of frenzy.

Newgate became thus, as it were, the very focus of infection, where the plague assumed its worst aspect, and where its victims perished far more expeditiously than elsewhere. Two of the turnkeys had already died of the distemper, and such was the alarm entertained, that no persons could be found to supply their places. To penetrate the recesses of the prison, was almost to insure destruction, and none but the attendants of the dead-cart and the nurses attempted it. Among the latter was Judith. Employed as a nurse on the first outburst of the plague, she willingly and fearlessly undertook the office. The worse the disease became the better pleased she appeared; and she was so utterly without apprehension, that when no one would approach the cell where some wretched sufferer lay expiring, she unhesitatingly entered it. But it was not to render aid, but to plunder, that she thus exercised her functions. She administered no medicine, dressed no tumours, and did not contribute in the slightest degree to the comfort of the miserable wretches committed to her charge. All she desired was to obtain whatever valuables they possessed, or to wring from them any secret that might afterwards be turned to account. Foreseeing that Newgate must ere long be depopulated, and having no fears for herself, she knew that she must then be liberated, and be able once more to renew her mischievous practices upon mankind. Her marvellous preservation throughout all the dangers to which she was exposed seemed almost to warrant the supposition that she had entered into a compact with the pestilence, to extend its ravages by every means in her power, on the condition of being spared herself.

Soon after the outbreak of the plague in Newgate, all the debtors were liberated, and if the keepers had had their own way, the common felons would have been likewise released. But this could not be, and they were kept to perish as before described. Matters, however, grew so serious, that it became a question whether the few miserable wretches left alive ought to be longer detained, and at last the turnkeys refusing to act any longer, and delivering their keys to the governor, the whole of the prisoners were set free.

On the night of their liberation, Chowles and Judith proceeded to the vaults of Saint Faith's, to deposit within them the plunder they had obtained in the prison. They found them entirely deserted. Neither verger, sexton, nor any other person, was to be seen, and they took up their quarters in the crypt. Having brought a basket of provisions and a few bottles of wine with them, they determined to pass the night in revelry; and, accordingly, having lighted a fire with the fragments of old coffins brought from the charnel, they sat down to their meal. Having done full justice to it, and disposed of the first flask, they were about to abandon themselves to unrestrained enjoyment, when their glee was all at once interrupted by a strange and unaccountable noise in the adjoining church. Chowles, who had just commenced chanting one of his wild melodies, suddenly stopped, and Judith set down the glass she had raised to her lips untested. What could it mean? Neither of them could tell. It seemed like strains of unearthly music, mixed with shrieks and groans as of tortured spirits, accompanied by peals of such laughter as might be supposed to proceed, from demons.

"The dead are burst forth from their tombs," cried Chowles, in a quavering voice, "and are attended by a legion of evil spirits."

"It would seem so," replied Judith, rising. "I should like to behold the sight. Come with me."

"Not for the world!" rejoined Chowles, shuddering, "and I would recommend you to stay where you are. You may behold your dead husband among them."

"Do you think so?" rejoined Judith, halting.

"I am sure of it," cried Chowles, eagerly. "Stay where you are—stay where you are."

As he spoke, there was another peal of infernal laughter, and the strains of music grew louder each moment.

"Come what may, I will see what it is," said Judith, emptying her glass, as if seeking courage from the draught. "Surely," she added, in a taunting tone, "you will come with me."

"I am afraid of nothing earthly," rejoined Chowles—"but I do not like to face beings of another world."

"Then I will go alone," rejoined Judith.

"Nay, that shall never be," replied Chowles, tottering after her.

As they opened the door and crossed the charnel, such an extraordinary combination of sounds burst upon their ears that they again paused, and looked anxiously at each other. Chowles laid his hand on his companion's arm, and strove to detain her, but she would not be stayed, and he was forced to proceed. Setting down the lamp on the stone floor, Judith passed into the subterranean church, where she beheld a sight that almost petrified her. In the midst of the nave, which was illumined by a blue glimmering light, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, stood a number of grotesque figures, apparelled in fantastic garbs, and each attended by a skeleton. Some of the latter grisly shapes were playing on tambours, others on psalteries, others on rebecs—every instrument producing the strangest sound imaginable. Viewed through the massive pillars, beneath that dark and ponderous roof, and by the mystic light before described, this strange company had a supernatural appearance, and neither Chowles nor Judith doubted for a moment that they beheld before them a congregation of phantoms. An irresistible feeling of curiosity prompted them to advance. On drawing nearer, they found the assemblage comprehended all ranks of society. There was a pope in his tiara and pontifical dress; a cardinal in his cap and robes; a monarch with a sceptre in his hand, and arrayed in the habiliments of royalty; a crowned queen; a bishop wearing his mitre, and carrying his crosier; an abbot, likewise in his mitre, and bearing a crosier; a duke in his robes of state; a grave canon of the church; a knight sheathed in armour; a judge, an advocate, and a magistrate, all in their robes; a mendicant friar and a nun; and the list was completed by a physician, an astrologer, a miser, a merchant, a duchess, a pedler, a soldier, a gamester, an idiot, a robber, a blind man, and a beggar—each distinguishable by his apparel.

By-and-by, with a wild and gibbering laugh that chilled the beholders' blood, one of the tallest and grisliest of the skeletons sprang forward, and beating his drum, the whole ghostly company formed, two and two, into a line—a skeleton placing itself on the right of every mortal. In this order, the fantastic procession marched between the pillars, the unearthly music playing all the while, and disappeared at the further extremity of the church. With the last of the group, the mysterious light vanished, and Chowles and his companion were left in profound darkness.

"What can it mean?" cried Judith, as soon as she recovered her speech. "Are they human, or spirits?"

"Human beings don't generally amuse themselves in this way," returned Chowles. "But hark!—I still hear the music.—They are above—in Saint Paul's."

"Then I will join them," said Judith. "I am resolved to see the end of it."

"Don't leave me behind," returned Chowles, following her. "I would rather keep company with Beelzebub and all his imps than be alone."

Both were too well acquainted with the way to need any light. Ascending the broad stone steps, they presently emerged into the cathedral, which they found illumined by the same glimmering light as the lower church, and they perceived the ghostly assemblage gathered into an immense ring, and dancing round the tall skeleton, who continued beating his drum, and uttering a strange gibbering sound, which was echoed by the others. Each moment the dancers increased the swiftness of their pace, until at last it grew to a giddy whirl, and then, all at once, with a shriek of laughter, the whole company fell to the ground.

Chowles and Judith, then, for the first time, understood, from the confusion that ensued, and the exclamations uttered, that they were no spirits they had to deal with, but beings of the same mould as themselves. Accordingly, they approached the party of masquers, for such they proved, and found on inquiry that they were a party of young gallants, who, headed by the Earl of Rochester—the representative of the tall skeleton—had determined to realize the Dance of Death, as once depicted on the walls of an ancient cloister at the north of the cathedral, called Pardon-churchyard, on the walls of which, says Stowe, were "artificially and richly painted the Dance of Macabre, or Dance of Death, commonly called the Dance of Paul's, the like whereof was painted about Saint Innocent's, at Paris. The metres, or poesy of this dance," proceeds the same authority, "were translated out of Trench into English by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, and, with the picture of Death leading all estates, painted about the cloister, at the special request and expense of Jenkin Carpenter, in the reign of Henry the Sixth." Pardon-churchyard was pulled down by the Protector Somerset, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, and the materials employed in the erection of his own palace in the Strand. It was the discussion of these singular paintings, and of the designs on the same subject ascribed to Holbein, that led the Earl of Rochester and his companions to propose the fantastic spectacle above described. With the disposition which this reckless nobleman possessed to turn the most solemn and appalling subjects to jest, he thought no season so fitting for such an entertainment as the present—just as in our own time the lively Parisians made the cholera, while raging in their city, the subject of a carnival pastime. The exhibition witnessed by Chowles and Judith was a rehearsal of the masque intended to be represented in the cathedral on the following night.

Again marshalling his band, the Earl of Rochester beat his drum, and skipping before them, led the way towards the south door of the cathedral, which was thrown open by an unseen hand, and the procession glided through it like a troop of spectres. Chowles, whose appearance was not unlike that of an animated skeleton, was seized with a strange desire to join in what was going forward, and taking off his doublet, and baring his bony arms and legs, he followed the others, dancing round Judith in the same manner that the other skeletons danced round their partners.

On reaching the Convocation House, a door was opened, and the procession entered the cloisters; and here Chowles, dragging Judith into the area between him and the beautiful structure they surrounded, began a dance of so extraordinary a character that the whole troop collected round to witness it. Rochester beat his drum, and the other representatives of mortality who were provided with musical instruments struck up a wild kind of accompaniment, to which Chowles executed the most grotesque flourishes. So wildly excited did he become, and such extravagances did he commit, that even Judith stared aghast at him, and began to think his wits were fled. Now he whirled round her—now sprang high into the air—now twined his lean arms round her waist—now peeped over one shoulder, now over the other—and at last griped her neck so forcibly, that he might perhaps have strangled her, if she had not broken from him, and dealt him a severe blow that brought him senseless to the ground. On recovering, he found himself in the arched entrance of a large octagonal chamber, lighted at each side by a lofty pointed window filled with stained glass. Round this chamber ran a wide stone bench, with a richly-carved back of the same material, on which the masquers were seated, and opposite the entrance was a raised seat, ordinarily allotted to the dean, but now occupied by the Earl of Rochester. A circular oak table stood in the midst of the chamber, covered with magnificent silver dishes, heaped with the choicest viands, which were handed to the guests by the earl's servants, all of whom represented skeletons, and it had a strange effect, to behold these ghastly objects filling the cups of the revellers, bending obsequiously before some blooming dame, or crowding round their spectral-looking lord.

At first, Chowles was so confused, that he thought he must have awakened in another world, but by degrees he called to mind what had occurred, and ascertained from Judith that he was in the Convocation House. Getting up, he joined the train of grisly attendants, and acquitted himself so well that the earl engaged him as performer in the masque. He was furthermore informed that, in all probability, the king himself, with many of his favourite nobles, and the chief court beauties, would be present to witness the spectacle.

The banquet over, word was brought that chairs and coaches were without, and the company departed, leaving behind only a few attendants, who remained to put matters in order.

While they were thus occupied, Judith, who had fixed her greedy eyes upon the plate, observed, in an under-tone, to Chowles, "There will be fine plunder for us. We must manage to carry off all that plate while they are engaged in the masque."

"You must do it yourself, then," returned Chowles, in the same tone—"for I shall have to play a principal part in the entertainment, and as the king himself will be present, I cannot give up such an opportunity of distinguishing myself."

"You can have no share in the prize, if you lend no assistance," replied Judith, with a dissatisfied look.

"Of course not," rejoined Chowles; "on this occasion it is all yours. The Dance of Death is too much to my taste to be given up."

Perceiving they were noticed, Chowles and Judith then left the Convocation House, and returned to the vault in Saint Faith's, nor did they emerge from it until late on the following day.

Some rumour of the masque having gone abroad, towards evening a crowd, chiefly composed of the most worthless order of society, collected under the portico at the western entrance, and the great doors being opened by Chowles, they entered the cathedral. Thus was this sacred building once more invaded—once again a scene of noise, riot, and confusion—its vaulted roofs instead of echoing the voice of prayer, or the choral hymn, resounded with loud laughter, imprecations, and licentious discourse. This disorder, however, was kept in some bounds by a strong body of the royal guard, who soon afterwards arrived, and stationing themselves in parties of three or four at each of the massive columns flanking the aisles, maintained some show of decorum. Besides these, there were others of the royal attendants, bearing torches, who walked from place to place, and compelled all loiterers in dark corners to proceed to the nave.

A little before midnight, the great doors were again thrown open, and a large troop of richly-attired personages, all wearing masks, were admitted. For a short time they paced to and fro between its shafted pillars gazing at the spectators grouped around, and evidently, from their jests and laughter, not a little entertained by the scene. As the clock struck twelve, however, all sounds were hushed, and the courtly party stationed themselves on the steps leading to the choir. At the same moment, also, the torches were extinguished, and the whole of the building buried in profound darkness. Presently after, a sound was heard of footsteps approaching the nave, but nothing could be discerned. Expectation was kept on the rack for some minutes, during which many a stifled cry was heard from those whose courage failed them at this trying juncture. All at once, a blue light illumined the nave, and partially revealed the lofty pillars by which it was surrounded. By this light the whole of the ghostly company could be seen drawn up near the western door. They were arranged two and two, a skeleton standing as before on the right of each character. The procession next marched slowly and silently towards the choir, and drew up at the foot of the steps, to give the royal party an opportunity of examining them. After pausing there for a few minutes, Rochester, in the dress of the larger skeleton, started off, and, beating his drum, was followed by the pope and his attendant skeleton. This couple having danced together for some minutes, to the infinite diversion of the spectators, disappeared behind a pillar, and were succeeded by the monarch and a second skeleton. These, in their turn, gave way to the cardinal and his companion, and so on till the whole of the masquers had exhibited themselves, when at a signal from the earl the party re-appeared, and formed a ring round him. The dance was executed with great spirit, and elicited tumultuous applause from all the beholders. The earl now retired, and Chowles took his place. He was clothed in an elastic dress painted of a leaden and cadaverous colour, which fitted closely to his fleshless figure, and defined all his angularities. He carried an hour-glass in one hand and a dart in the other, and in the course of the dance kept continually pointing the latter at those who moved around him. His feats of the previous evening were nothing to his present achievements. His joints creaked, and his eyes flamed like burning coals. As he continued, his excitement increased. He bounded higher, and his countenance assumed so hideous an expression, that those near him recoiled in terror, crying, "Death himself had broke loose among them." The consternation soon became general. The masquers fled in dismay, and scampered along the aisles scarcely knowing whither they were going. Delighted with the alarm he occasioned, Chowles chased a large party along the northern aisle, and was pursuing them across the transept upon which it opened, when he was arrested in his turn by another equally formidable figure, who suddenly placed himself in his path.

"Hold!" exclaimed Solomon Eagle—for it was the enthusiast—in a voice of thunder, "it is time this scandalous exhibition should cease. Know all ye who make a mockery of death, that his power will be speedily and fearfully approved upon you. Thine not to escape the vengeance of the Great Being whose temple you have profaned. And you, O king! who have sanctioned these evil doings by your presence, and who by your own dissolute life set a pernicious example to all your subjects, know that your city shall be utterly laid waste, first by plague and then by fire. Tremble! my warning is as terrible and true as the handwriting on the wall."

"Who art thou who holdest this language towards me?" demanded Charles.

"I am called Solomon Eagle," replied the enthusiast, "and am charged with a mission from on high to warn your doomed people of their fate. Be warned yourself, sire! Your end will be sudden. You will be snatched away in the midst of your guilty pleasure, and with little time for repentance. Be warned, I say again."

With this he turned to depart.

"Secure the knave," cried Charles, angrily. "He shall be soundly scourged for his insolence."

But bursting through the guard, Solomon Eagle ran swiftly up the choir and disappeared, nor could his pursuers discover any traces of him.

"Strange!" exclaimed the king, when he was told of the enthusiast's escape. "Let us go to supper. This masque has given me the vapours."

"Pray Heaven it have not given us the plague," observed the fair Stewart, who stood beside him, taking his arm.

"It is to be hoped not," rejoined Charles; "but, odds fish! it is a most dismal affair."

"It is so, in more ways than one," replied Rochester, "for I have just learnt that all my best plate has been carried off from the Convocation House. I shall only be able to offer your majesty and your fair partner a sorry supper."

IV.

THE PLAGUE-PIT.

On being made acquainted by Leonard, who helped him out of the pest-cart, with the danger he had run, the piper uttered a cry of terror, and swooned away. The buriers, seeing how matters stood, and that their superstitious fears were altogether groundless, now returned, and one of them, producing a phial of vinegar, sprinkled the fainting man with it, and speedily brought him to himself. But though so far recovered, his terror had by no means abated, and he declared his firm conviction that he was infected by the pestilence.

"I have been carried towards the plague-pit by mistake," he said. "I shall soon be conveyed thither in right earnest, and not have the power of frightening away my conductors on the road."

"Pooh! pooh!" cried one of the buriers, jestingly. "I hope you will often ride with us, and play us many a merry tune as you go. You shall always be welcome to a seat in the cart."

"Be of good cheer," added Leonard, "and all will be well. Come with me to an apothecary's shop, and I will procure a cordial for you, which shall speedily dispel your qualms."

The piper shook his head, and replied, with a deep groan, that he was certain all was over with him.

"However, I will not reject your kindness," he added, "though I feel I am past the help of medicine."

"With this, he whistled to Bell, who was skipping about Leonard, having recognised him on his first approach, and they proceeded towards the second postern in London-wall, between Moorgate and Cripplegate; while the buriers, laughing heartily at the adventure, took their way towards the plague-pit, and discharged their dreadful load within it. Arrived in Basinghall-street, and looking round, Leonard soon discovered by the links at the door, as well as by the crowd collected before it—for day and night the apothecaries' dwellings were besieged by the sick—the shop of which he was in search. It was long before they could obtain admittance, and during this time the piper said he felt himself getting rapidly worse; but, imagining he was merely labouring under the effect of fright, Leonard paid little attention to his complaints. The apothecary, however, no sooner set eyes upon him, than he pronounced him infected, and, on examination, it proved that the fatal tokens had already appeared.

"I knew it was so," cried the piper. "Take me to the pest-house—take me to the pest-house!"

"His desire had better be complied with," observed the apothecary. "He is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to do so two hours hence. It is a bad case," he added in an under-tone to Leonard.

Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields. Here they paused for a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking gleefully.

"Poor Bell!" cried the piper; "what will become of thee when I am gone?"

"If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her," replied Leonard.

"She is yours," rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "Be kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress."

"Since you have alluded to your daughter," returned Leonard, "I must tell you what has become of her. I have not hitherto mentioned the subject, fearing it might distress you."

"Have no further consideration, but speak out," rejoined the piper. "Be it what it may, I will bear it like a man."

Leonard then briefly recounted all that had occurred, describing Nizza's disguise as a page, and her forcible abduction by Parravicin. He was frequently interrupted by the groans of his hearer, who at last gave vent to his rage and anguish in words.

"Heaven's direst curse upon her ravisher!" he cried. "May he endure worse misery than I now endure. She is lost for ever."

"She may yet be preserved," rejoined Leonard. "Doctor Hodges thinks he has discovered her retreat, and I will not rest till I find her."

"No—no, you will never find her," replied the piper, bitterly; "or if you do, it will be only to bewail her ruin."

His rage then gave way to such an access of grief, that, letting his head fall on Leonard's shoulder, he wept aloud.

"There is a secret connected with that poor girl," he said, at length, controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, "which must now go to the grave with me. The knowledge of it would only add to her distress."

"You view the matter too unfavourably," replied Leonard; "and if the secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me. If your worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall never be revealed to her."

"On that condition only, I will confide it to you," replied the piper; "but not now—not now—to-morrow morning, if I am alive."

"It may be out of your power then," returned Leonard, "For your daughter's sake, I urge you not to delay."

"It is for her sake I am silent," rejoined the piper. "Come along—come along" he added, hurrying forward. "Are we far from the pest-house? My strength is failing me."

On arriving at their destination, they were readily admitted to the asylum; but a slight difficulty arose, which, however, was speedily obviated. All the couches were filled, but on examining them it was found that one of the sick persons had just been released from his sufferings, and the body being removed, the piper was allowed to take its place. Leonard remained by him for a short time, but, overpowered by the pestilential effluvia, and the sight of so many miserable objects, he was compelled to seek the open air. Returning, however, shortly afterwards, he found the piper in a very perturbed state. On hearing Leonard's voice he appeared greatly relieved, and, taking his gown from beneath his pillow, gave it to him, and desired him to unrip a part of the garment, in which it was evident something was sewn. The apprentice complied, and a small packet dropped forth.

"Take it," said the piper; "and if I die,—and Nizza should happily be preserved from her ravisher, give it her. But not otherwise—not otherwise. Implore her to forgive me—to pity me."

"Forgive you—her father?" cried Leonard, in astonishment.

"That packet will explain all," replied the piper in a troubled tone. "You promised to take charge of poor Bell," he added, drawing forth the little animal, who had crept to the foot of the bed, "here she is. Farewell! my faithful friend," he added, pressing his rough lips to her forehead, while she whined piteously, as if beseeching him to allow her to remain; "farewell for ever."

"Not for ever, I trust," replied Leonard, taking her gently from him.

"And now you had better go," said the piper. "Return, if you can, to-morrow."

"I will,—I will," replied Leonard; and he hurried out of the room.

He was followed to the door by the young chirurgeon—the same who had accompanied Mr. Bloundel during his inspection of the pest-house,—and he inquired of him if he thought the piper's case utterly hopeless.

"Not utterly so," replied the young man. "I shall be able to speak more positively in a few hours. At present, I think, with care and attention, there is a chance of his recovery."

Much comforted by this assurance, Leonard departed, and afraid to put Bell to the ground lest she should run back to her master, he continued to carry her, and endeavoured to attach her to him by caresses and endearments. The little animal showed her sense of his kindness by licking his hands, but she still remained inconsolable, and ever and anon struggled to get free. Making the best of his way to Wood-street, he entered the hutch, and placing a little straw in one corner for Bell, threw himself on a bench and dropped asleep. At six o'clock he was awakened by the barking of the dog, and opening the door beheld Dallison. The grocer was at the window above, and about to let down a basket of provisions to them. To Leonard's eager inquiries after Amabel, Mr. Bloundel replied by a melancholy shake of the head, and soon afterwards withdrew. With a sad heart, the apprentice then broke his fast,—not forgetting at the same time the wants of his little companion,—and finding he was not required by his master, he proceeded to Doctor Hodges' residence. He was fortunate enough to find the friendly physician at home, and, after relating to him what had occurred, committed the packet to his custody.

"It will be safer in your keeping than mine," he said; "and if anything should happen to me, you will, I am sure, observe the wishes of the poor piper."

"Rely upon it, I will," replied Hodges. "I am sorry to tell you I have been misled as to the clue I fancied I had obtained to Nizza's retreat. We are as far from the mark as ever."

"Might not the real name of the villain who has assumed the name of Sir Paul Parravicin be ascertained from the Earl of Rochester?" rejoined Leonard.

"So I thought," replied Hodges; "and I made the attempt yesterday, but it failed. I was at Whitehall, and finding the earl in the king's presence, suddenly asked him where I could find his friend Sir Paul Parravicin. He looked surprised at the question, glanced significantly at the monarch, and then carelessly answered that he knew no such person."

"A strange idea crosses me," cried Leonard. "Can it be the king who has assumed this disguise?"

"At one time I suspected as much," rejoined Hodges; "but setting aside your description of the person, which does not tally with that of Charles, I am satisfied from other circumstances it is not so. After all, I should not wonder if poor Bell," smoothing her long silky ears as she lay in the apprentice's arms, "should help us to discover her mistress. And now," he added, "I shall go to Wood-street to inquire after Amabel, and will then accompany you to the pest-house. From what you tell me the young chirurgeon said of the piper, I do not despair of his recovery."

"Poor as his chance may appear, it is better, I fear, than Amabel's," sighed the apprentice.

"Ah!" exclaimed Hodges, in a sorrowful tone, "hers is slight indeed."

And perceiving that the apprentice was greatly moved, he waited for a moment till he had recovered himself, and then, motioning him to follow him, they quitted the house together.

On reaching Mr. Bloundel's habitation, Leonard pulled the cord in the hutch, and the grocer appeared at the window.

"My daughter has not left her bed this morning," he said, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, "and I fear she is much worse. My wife is with her. It would be a great satisfaction to me if you would see her again."

After some little hesitation, Hodges assented, and was drawn up as before. He returned in about half an hour, and his grave countenance convinced Leonard that his worst anticipations were correct. He therefore forbore to question him, and they walked towards Cripplegate in silence.

On emerging into the fields, Hodges observed to his companion, "It is strange that I who daily witness such dreadful suffering should be pained by the gradual and easy decline of Amabel. But so it is. Her case touches me more than the worst I have seen of the plague."

"I can easily account for the feeling," groaned Leonard.

"I am happy to say I have prevailed on her, if she does not improve in a short time,—and there is not the slightest chance of it,—to try the effect of a removal to the country. Her father also consents to the plan."

"I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard. "But whither will she go, and who will watch over her?"

"That is not yet settled," rejoined Hodges.

"Oh! that I might be permitted to undertake the office!" cried Leonard, passionately.

"Restrain yourself," said Hodges, in a tone of slight rebuke. "Fitting attendance will be found, if needed."

The conversation then dropped, and they walked briskly forward. They were now within a short distance of the pest-house, and Leonard, hearing footsteps behind him, turned and beheld a closed litter, borne by two stout porters, and evidently containing a plague-patient. He stepped aside to let it pass, when Bell, suddenly pricking her ears, uttered a singular cry, and bursting from him, flew after the litter, leaping against it and barking joyfully. The porters, who were proceeding at a quick pace, tried to drive her away, but without effect, and she continued her cries until they reached the gates of the pest-house. In vain Leonard whistled to her, and called her back. She paid no attention whatever to him.

"I almost begin to fear," said Hodges, unable to repress a shudder, "that the poor animal will, indeed, be the means of discovering for us the object of our search."

"I understand what you mean," rejoined Leonard, "and am of the same opinion as yourself. Heaven grant we may be mistaken!"

And as he spoke, he ran forward, and, followed by Hodges, reached the pest-house just as the litter was taken into it.

"Silence that accursed dog," cried one of the porters, "and bid a nurse attend us. We have a patient for the women's ward."

"Let me see her," cried Hodges. "I am a physician."

"Readily, sir," replied the porter. "It is almost over with her, poor soul! It would have saved time and trouble to take her to the plague-pit at once. She cannot last many hours. Curse the dog! Will it never cease howling?"

Leonard here seized Bell, fearing she might do some mischief, and with a sad foreboding beheld the man draw back the curtains of the litter. His fears proved well founded. There, stretched upon the couch, with her dark hair unbound, and flowing in wild disorder over her neck, lay Nizza Macascree. The ghastly paleness of her face could not, however, entirely rob it of its beauty, and her dark eyes were glazed and lustreless. At the sight of her mistress, poor Bell uttered so piteous a cry, that Leonard, moved by compassion, placed her on the pillow beside her, and the sagacious animal did not attempt to approach nearer, but merely licked her cheek. Roused by the touch, Nizza turned to see what was near her, and recognising the animal, made a movement to strain her to her bosom, but the pain she endured was so intense that she sank back with a deep groan.

"From whom did you receive this young woman?" demanded Hodges, of one of the porters.

"She was brought to us by two richly-attired lacqueys," replied the man, "in this very litter. They paid us to carry her here without loss of time."

"You have an idea whose servants they were?" pursued Hodges.

"Not the least," replied the fellow; "but I should judge, from the richness of their dress, that they belonged to some nobleman."

"Did they belong to the royal household?" inquired Leonard.

"No, no," rejoined the man. "I am certain as to that."

"The poor girl shall not remain here," observed Hodges, to the apprentice. "You must convey her to my residence in Great Knightrider-street," he added, to the porters.

"We will convey her wherever you please," replied the men, "if we are paid for our trouble."

And they were about to close the curtains, when Nizza, having caught sight of the apprentice, slightly raised herself, and cried, in a voice of the utmost anxiety, "Is that you, Leonard?"

"It is," he replied, approaching her.

"Then I shall die happy, since I have seen you once more," she said. "Oh, do not stay near me. You may catch the infection."

"Nizza," said Leonard, disregarding the caution, and breathing the words in her ear; "allay my fears by a word. You have not fallen a victim to the villain who carried you away?"

"I have not, Leonard," she replied, solemnly, "I resisted his importunities, his threats, his violence, and would have slain myself rather than have yielded to him. The plague, at length, came to my rescue, and I have reason to be grateful to it; for it has not only delivered me from him, but has brought me to you."

"I must now impose silence upon you," interposed Hodges, laying his finger on his lips; "further conversation will be hurtful."

"One question more, and I have done," replied Nizza. "How came Bell with you—and where is my father? Nothing has happened to him?" she continued, observing Leonard's countenance change. "Speak! do not keep me in suspense. Your silence fills me with apprehension. Speak, I implore you. He is dead?"

"No," replied Leonard, "he is not dead—but he is an inmate of this place."

"Ah!" exclaimed Nizza, falling back senseless upon the pillow.

And in this state she was conveyed with the greatest expedition to the doctor's residence.

Leonard only tarried to visit the piper, whom he found slightly delirious, and unable to hold any conversation with him, and promising to return in the evening, he set out after the litter. Nizza was placed in the best apartment of the doctor's house, and attended by an experienced and trustworthy nurse. But Hodges positively refused to let Leonard see her again, affirming that the excitement was too much for her, and might militate against the chance of her recovery.

"I am not without hopes of bringing her through," he said, "and though it will be a severe struggle, yet, as she has youth and a good constitution on her side, I do not despair. If she herself would second me, I should be yet more confident."

"How mean you?" inquired Leonard.

"I think if she thought life worth a struggle—if, in short, she believed you would return her attachment, she would rally," answered Hodges.

"I cannot consent to deceive her thus," rejoined Leonard, sadly. "My heart is fixed elsewhere."

"Your heart is fixed upon one who will soon be in her grave," replied the doctor.

"And with her my affections will be buried," rejoined Leonard, turning away to hide his tears.

So well was the doctor's solicitude rewarded, that three days after Nizza had come under his care, he pronounced her out of danger. But the violence of the attack left her so weak and exhausted, that he still would not allow an interview to take place between her and Leonard. During all this time Bell never left her side, and her presence was an inexpressible comfort to her. The piper, too, was slowly recovering, and Leonard, who daily visited him, was glad to learn from the young chirurgeon that he would be able to leave the pest-house shortly. Having ascertained from Leonard that his daughter was under the care of Doctor Hodges, and likely to do well, the piper begged so earnestly that the packet might not be delivered to her, that, after some consultation with Hodges, Leonard restored it to him. He was delighted to get it back, felt it carefully over to ascertain that the seals were unbroken, and satisfied that all was safe, had it again sewn up in his gown, which he placed under his pillow.

"I would rather disclose the secret to her by word of mouth than in any other way," he said.

Leonard felt doubtful whether the secret would now be disclosed at all, but he made no remark.

Night was drawing on as he quitted the pest-house, and he determined to take this opportunity of visiting the great plague-pit, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant, in a line with the church of All-Hallows-in-the-Wall, and he accordingly proceeded in that direction. The pit which he was about to visit was about forty feet long, twenty wide, and the like number deep. Into this tremendous chasm the dead were promiscuously thrown, without regard to sex or condition, generally stripped of their clothing, and covered with a slight layer of earth and quick lime.

The sun was setting as Leonard walked towards this dismal place, and he thought he had never witnessed so magnificent a sight. Indeed, it was remarked that at this fatal season the sunsets were unusually splendid. The glorious orb sank slowly behind Saint Paul's, which formed a prominent object in the view from the fields, and threw out its central tower, its massive roof, and the two lesser towers flanking the portico, into strong relief. Leonard gazed at the mighty fabric, which seemed dilated to twice its size by this light, and wondered whether it was possible that it could ever be destroyed, as predicted by Solomon Eagle.

Long after the sun had set, the sky was stained with crimson, and the grey walls of the city were tinged with rosy radiance. The heat was intense, and Leonard, to cool himself, sat down in the thick grass—for, though the crops were ready for the scythe, no mowers could be found—and, gazing upwards, strove to mount in spirit from the tainted earth towards heaven. After a while he arose, and proceeded towards the plague-pit. The grass was trampled down near it, and there were marks of frequent cart-wheels upon the sod. Great heaps of soil, thrown out of the excavation, lay on either side. Holding a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to his face, Leonard ventured to the brink of the pit. But even this precaution could not counteract the horrible effluvia arising from it. It was more than half filled with dead bodies; and through the putrid and heaving mass many disjointed limbs and ghastly faces could be discerned, the long hair of women and the tiny arms of children appearing on the surface. It was a horrible sight—so horrible, that it possessed a fascination peculiar to itself, and, in spite of his loathing, Leonard lingered to gaze at it. Strange and fantastic thoughts possessed him. He fancied that the legs and arms moved—that the eyes of some of the corpses opened and glared at him—and that the whole rotting mass was endowed with animation. So appalled was he by this idea that he turned away, and at that moment beheld a vehicle approaching. It was the dead-cart, charged with a heavy load to increase the already redundant heap.

The same inexplicable and irresistible feelings of curiosity that induced Leonard to continue gazing upon the loathly objects in the pit, now prompted him to stay and see what would ensue. Two persons were with the cart, and one of them, to Leonard's infinite surprise and disgust, proved to be Chowles. He had no time, however, for the expression of any sentiment, for the cart halted at a little distance from him, when its conductors, turning it round, backed it towards the edge of the pit. The horse was then taken out, and Chowles calling to Leonard, the latter involuntarily knelt down to guide its descent, while the other assistant, who had proceeded to the further side of the chasm, threw the light of a lantern full upon the grisly load, which was thus shot into the gulf below.

Shovelling a sufficient quantity of earth and lime into the pit to cover the bodies, Chowles and his companion departed, leaving Leonard alone. He continued there a few moments longer, and was about to follow them, when a prolonged and piercing cry smote his ear; and, looking in the direction of the sound, he perceived a figure running with great swiftness towards the pit. As no pursuers appeared, Leonard could scarcely doubt that this was one of the distracted persons he had heard of, who, in the frenzy produced by the intolerable anguish of their sores, would often rush to the plague-pit and bury themselves, and he therefore resolved, if possible, to prevent the fatal attempt. Accordingly, he placed himself in the way of the runner, and endeavoured, with outstretched arms, to stop him. But the latter dashed him aside with great violence, and hurrying to the brink of the pit, uttered a fearful cry, and exclaiming, "She is here! she is here!—I shall find her amongst them!"—flung himself into the abyss.

As soon as he could shake off the horror inspired by this dreadful action, Leonard ran to the pit, and, gazing into it, beheld him by the imperfect light struggling in the horrible mass in which he was partially immersed. The frenzied man had now, however, begun to repent his rashness, and cried out for aid. But this Leonard found it impossible to afford him; and, seeing he must speedily perish if left to himself, he ran after the dead-cart, and overtaking it just as it reached Moor-gate, informed Chowles what had happened, and begged him to return.

"There will be no use in helping him out," rejoined Chowles, in a tone of indifference. "We shall have to take him back in a couple of hours. No, no—let him remain where he is. There is scarcely a night that some crazy being does not destroy himself in the same way. We never concern ourselves about such persons except to strip them of their apparel."

"Unfeeling wretch!" cried Leonard, unable to restrain his indignation. "Give me your fork, and I will pull him out myself."

Instead of surrendering the implement, Chowles flourished it over his head with the intention of striking the apprentice, but the latter nimbly avoided the blow, and snatching it from his grasp, ran back to the plague-pit. He was followed by Chowles and the burier, who threatened him with loud oaths. Regardless of their menaces, Leonard fixed the hook in the dress of the struggling man, and exerting all his strength, drew him out of the abyss. He had just lodged him in safety on the brink when Chowles and his companion came up.

"Keep off!" cried Leonard, brandishing his fork as he spoke; "you shall neither commit robbery nor murder here. If you will assist this unfortunate gentleman, I have no doubt you will be well rewarded. If not, get hence, or advance at your peril."

"Well," returned Chowles, who began to fancy something might be made of the matter, "if you think we should be rewarded, we would convey the gentleman back to his own home provided we can ascertain where it is. But I am afraid he may die on the way."

"In that case you can apply to his friends," rejoined Leonard. "He must not be abandoned thus."

"First, let us know who he is," returned Chowles. "Is he able to speak?"

"I know not," answered Leonard. "Bring the lantern this way, and let us examine his countenance."

Chowles complied, and held the light over the unfortunate person. His attire was rich, but in great disorder, and sullied by the loathsome mass in which he had been plunged. He was in the flower of youth, and his features must have been remarkable for their grace and beauty, but they were now of a livid hue, and swollen and distorted by pain. Still Leonard recognised them.

"Gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed. "It is Sir Paul Parravicin."

"Sir Paul Parravicin!" echoed Chowles. "By all that's wonderful, so it is! Here is a lucky chance! Bring the dead-cart hither, Jonas—quick, quick! I shall put him under the care of Judith Malmayns."

And the burier hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Had I known who it was," exclaimed Leonard, gazing with abhorrence at the miserable object before him, "I would have left him to die the death he so richly merits!"

A deep groan broke from the sufferer.

"Have no fear, Sir Paul," said Chowles. "You are in good hands. Every care shall be taken of you, and you shall be cured by Judith Malmayns."

"She shall not come near me," rejoined Parravicin, faintly. "You will take care of me?" he added in an imploring tone, to Leonard.

"You appeal in vain to me," rejoined the apprentice, sternly. "You are justly punished for your treatment of Nizza Macascree."

"I am—I am," groaned Parravicin, "but she will be speedily avenged. I shall soon join her in that pit."

"She is not there," replied Leonard, bitterly, "She is fast recovering from the plague."

"Is she not dead?" demanded Parravicin, with frightful eagerness. "I was told she was thrown into that horrible chasm."

"You were deceived," replied Leonard. "She was taken to the pest-house by your orders, and would have perished if she had not found a friend to aid her. She is now out of danger."

"Then I no longer desire to die," cried Parravicin, desperately. "I will live—live."

"Do not delude yourself," replied Leonard, coldly; "you have little chance of recovery, and should employ the short time left you in praying to Heaven for forgiveness of your sins."

"Tush!" exclaimed Parravicin, fiercely, "I shall not weary Heaven with ineffectual supplications. I well know I am past all forgiveness. No," he added, with a fearful imprecation, "since Nizza is alive, I will not die."

"Right, Sir Paul, right," rejoined Chowles; "put a bold face on it, and I will answer for it you will get over the attack. Have no fear of Judith Malmayns," he added, in a significant tone. "However she may treat others, she will cure you."

"I will make it worth her while to do so," rejoined Parravicin.

"Here is the cart," cried Chowles, seeing the vehicle approach. "I will take you in the first place to Saint Paul's. Judith must see you as soon as possible."

"Take me where you please," rejoined Parravicin, faintly; "and remember what I have said. If I die, the nurse will get nothing—if I am cured, she shall be proportionately rewarded."

"I will not forget it," replied Chowles. And with the help of Jonas he placed the knight carefully in the cart. "You need not trouble yourself further about him," he added to Leonard.

"Before be quits this place I must know who he is," rejoined the latter, placing himself at the horse's head.

"You know his name as well as I do," replied Chowles.

"Parravicin is not his real name," rejoined Leonard.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Chowles, "this is news to me. But no matter who he is, he is rich enough to pay well. So stand aside, and let us go. We have no time to waste in further parleying."

"I will not move till my question is answered," replied Leonard.

"We will see to that," said Jonas, approaching him behind, and dealing him so severe a blow on the head that he stretched him senseless on the ground? "Shall we throw him into the pit?" he added to Chowles.

The latter hesitated for a moment, and then said, "No, no, it is not worth while. It may bring us into trouble. We have no time to lose." And they then put the cart in motion, and took the way to Saint Paul's.

On coming to himself, Leonard had some difficulty in recalling what had happened; and when the whole train of circumstances rushed upon his mind, he congratulated himself that he had escaped further injury. "When I think of the hands I have been placed in," he murmured, "I cannot but be grateful that they did not throw me into the pit, where no discovery could have been made as to how I came to an end. But I will not rest till I have ascertained the name and rank of Nizza's persecutor. I have no doubt they have taken him to Saint Paul's, and will proceed thither at once."

With this view, he hastened towards the nearest city gate, and passing towards it, shaped his course towards the cathedral. It was a fine starlight night, and though there was no moon, the myriad lustres glowing in the deep and cloudless vault rendered every object plainly distinguishable. At this hour, little restraint was placed upon the sick, and they wandered about the streets uttering dismal cries. Some would fling themselves upon bulks or steps, where they were not unfrequently found the next morning bereft of life. Most of those not attacked by the distemper kept close house; but there were some few reckless beings who passed the night in the wildest revelry, braving the fate awaiting them. As Leonard passed Saint Michael's church, in Basinghall-street, he perceived, to his great surprise, that it was lighted up, and at first supposed some service was going on within it, but on approaching he heard strains of lively and most irreverent music issuing from within. Pushing open the door, he entered the sacred edifice, and found it occupied by a party of twenty young men, accompanied by a like number of females, some of whom were playing at dice and cards, some drinking, others singing Bacchanalian melodies, others dancing along the aisles to the notes of a theorbo and spinet. Leonard was so inexpressibly shocked by what he beheld, that unable to contain himself he mounted the steps of the pulpit, and called to them in a loud voice to desist from their scandalous conduct, and no longer profane the house of God. But they treated his remonstrances with laughter and derision, and some of the party forming themselves into a group round the pulpit, entreated him to preach to them.

"We want a little variety," said one of the group, a good-looking young man, upon whom the wine had evidently made some impression—"we are tired of drinking and play, and may as well listen to a sermon, especially an original one. Hold forth to us, I say."

"I would, hold forth till daybreak, if I thought it would produce any impression," returned Leonard. "But I perceive you are too hardened to be aroused to repentance."

"Repentance!" cried another of the assemblage. "Do you know whom you address? These gentlemen are the Brotherhood of Saint Michael, and I am the principal. We are determined to enjoy the few days or hours we may have left—that is all. We are not afraid of the future, and are resolved to make the most of the present."

"Ay, ay," cried the others, with a great shout of laughter, which, however, was interrupted by a cry of anguish from one of the party.

"There is another person seized," said the principal; "take him away, brothers. This is owing to listening to a sermon. Let us return to our wine."

"Will you not accept this awful warning?" cried Leonard. "You will all share your companion's fate."

"We anticipate nothing else," returned the principal; "and are therefore resolved to banish reflection. A week ago, the Brotherhood of Saint Michael consisted of forty persons. We are already diminished to half the number, but are not the less merry on that account. On the contrary, we are more jovial than ever. We have agreed that whoever shall be seized with the distemper, shall be instantly conveyed to the pest-house, so that the hilarity of the others shall not be interrupted. The poor fellow who has just been attacked has left behind him a beautiful mistress. She is yours if you choose to join us."

"Ay, stop with us," cried a young and very pretty woman, taking his hand and drawing him towards the company who were dancing beneath the aisles.

But Leonard disengaged himself, and hurried away amid the laughter and hootings of the assemblage. The streets, despite their desolate appearance, were preferable to the spot he had just quitted, and he seemed to breathe more freely when he got to a little distance from the polluted fane. He had now entered Wood-street, but all was as still as death, and he paused to gaze up at his master's window, but there was no one at it. Many a lover, unable to behold the object of his affections, has in some measure satisfied the yearning of his heart by gazing at her dwelling, and feeling he was near her. Many a sad heart has been cheered by beholding a light at a window, or a shadow on its closed curtains, and such would have been Leonard's feelings if he had not been depressed by the thought of Amabel's precarious state of health.

While thus wrapt in mournful thought, he observed three figures slowly approaching from the further end of the street, and he instinctively withdrew into a doorway. He had reason to congratulate himself upon the precaution, as, when the party drew nearer, he recognised, with a pang that shot to his heart, the voice of Rochester. A moment's observation from his place of concealment showed him that the earl was accompanied by Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. They paused within a short distance of him, and he could distinctly hear their conversation.

"You have not yet told us why you brought us here my lord," said Etherege to Rochester, after the latter had gazed for a few moments in silence at the house. "Are you resolved to make another attempt to carry off the girl—and failing in it, to give her up for ever!"

"You have guessed my purpose precisely," returned Rochester. "Doctor Hodges has informed a friend of mine that the pretty Amabel has fallen into a decline. The poor soul is, doubtless, pining for me; and it would be the height of inhumanity to let her perish."

Leonard ground his teeth-with suppressed rage.

"Then you mean to make her Countess of Rochester, after all," laughed Etherege. "I thought you had determined to carry off Mistress Mallett."

"Old Bowley declares he will send me to the Tower if I do," replied Rochester; "and though his threats would scarcely deter me from acting as I think proper, I have no inclination for marriage at present. What a pity, Etherege, that one cannot in these affairs have the money oneself, and give the wife to one's friend."

"That is easily accomplished," replied Etherege, laughingly; "especially where you have a friend so devoted as myself. But do you mean to carry off Amabel to-night?"

"Ay, now we come to business," interposed Pillichody. "Bolts and barricadoes! your lordship has only to say the word, and I will break into the house, and bear her off for you."

"Your former conduct is a good guarantee for your present success, truly," returned Rochester, with a sneer. "No, no; I shall postpone my design for the present. I have ascertained, from the source whence I obtained information of Amabel's illness, that she is to be removed into the country. This will exactly suit my purpose, and put her completely in my power."

"Then nothing is to be done to-night?" said Pillichody, secretly congratulating himself on his escape. "By my sword! I feel equal to the most desperate attempt."

"Your courage and dexterity must be reserved for some more favourable occasion," replied Rochester.

"If not to carry off the girl, I must again inquire why your lordship has come hither?" demanded Etherege.

"To be frank with you, my sole motive was to gaze at the house that contains her," replied Rochester, in a voice that bespoke his sincerity. "I have before told you that she has a strong hold upon my heart. I have not seen her for some weeks, and during that time have endeavoured to obliterate her image by making love to a dozen others. But it will not do. She still continues absolute mistress of my affections. I sometimes think, if I can obtain her in no other way, I shall be rash enough to marry her."

"Pshaw! this must never be," said Etherege.

"Were I to lose her altogether, I should be inconsolable," cried Rochester.

"As inconsolable as I am for the rich widow of Watling-street, who died a fortnight ago of the plague, and left her wealth to her footman," replied Pillichody, drawing forth his handkerchief and applying it to his eyes—"oh! oh!"

"Silence, fool!" cried Rochester: "I am in no mood for buffoonery. If you shed tears for any one, it should be for your master."

"Truly, I am grieved for him," replied Pillichody; "but I object to the term 'master.' Sir Paul Parravicin, as he chooses to be called, is my patron, not my master. He permits me a very close familiarity, not to say friendship."

"Well, then, your patron," rejoined Rochester, scornfully. "How is he going on to-night?"

"I feared to tell your lordship," replied Pillichody, "lest it should spoil your mirth; but he broke out of his chamber a few hours ago, and has not been discovered since. Most likely, he will be found in the plague-pit or the Thames in the morning, for he was in such an infuriated state, that it is the opinion of his attendants he would certainly destroy himself. You know he was attacked two days after Nizza Macascree was seized by the pestilence, and his brain has been running upon the poor girl ever since."

"Alas!" exclaimed Rochester, "it is a sad end. I am wearied of this infected city, and shall be heartily glad to quit it. A few months in the country with Amabel will be enchanting."

"Apropos of melancholy subjects," said Etherege, "your masque of the Dance of Death has caused great consternation at court. Mistress Stewart declares she cannot get that strange fellow who performed such fantastic tricks in the skeleton-dance out of her head."

"You mean Chowles," replied the earl. "He is a singular being, certainly—once a coffin-maker, and now, I believe, a burier of the dead. He takes up his abode in a crypt of Saint Faith's and leads an incomprehensible life. As we return we shall pass the cathedral, and can see whether he is astir."

"Readily," replied Etherege. "Do you desire to tarry here longer, or shall we proceed before you, while you indulge your tender meditations undisturbed?"

"Leave me," replied Rochester; "I shall be glad to be alone for a few moments."

Etherege and Pillichody then proceeded slowly towards Cheapside, while the earl remained with his arms folded upon his breast, and his gaze fixed upon the house. Leonard watched him with intense curiosity, and had great difficulty in controlling himself. Though the earl was armed, while he had only his staff, he could have easily mastered him by assailing him unawares. But Leonard's generous nature revolted at the unworthy suggestion, and he resolved, if he attacked him at all, to give him time to stand upon his guard. A moment's reflection, however, satisfied him that his wisest course would be to remain concealed. He was now in possession of the earl's plan, and, with the help of Doctor Hodges, could easily defeat it; whereas if he appeared, it would be evident that he had overheard what had passed, and some other scheme, to which he could not be privy, would be necessarily adopted. Influenced by this consideration, he suffered the earl to depart unmolested, and when he had got to some distance followed him. Rochester's companions were waiting for him in Cheapside, and, joining them, they all three proceeded towards the cathedral. They entered the great northern door; and Leonard, who was now well acquainted with all the approaches, passed through the door at the north side of the choir, to which he had been directed on a former occasion by Solomon Eagle. He found the party guided by the old verger—the only one of its former keepers who still lingered about the place—and preparing to descend to Saint Faith's. Leonard followed as near as he could without exposing himself, and, on gaining the subterranean church, easily contrived to screen himself behind the ponderous ranks of pillars.

By this time they had reached the door of the charnel It was closed; but Rochester knocked against it, and Chowles presently appeared. He seemed greatly surprised at seeing the earl, nor was the latter less astonished when he learnt that Parravicin was within the vault. He desired to be shown to his friend, and Chowles ushered him into the crypt. Leonard would have followed them; but as Etherege and the others declined entering the charnel, and remained at the door, he could not do so.

Shortly after this the sick man was brought out, stretched upon a pallet, borne by Chowles and Judith; and the party proceeded slowly, and occasionally relieving each other, to the great western entrance, where a coach being procured by Pillichody, Parravicin was placed within it, with Judith and Chowles; and orders being given in an under-tone to the driver, he departed. The others then proceeded towards Ludgate, while Leonard, again disappointed, retraced his steps to Wood-street.

* * * * *

V.

HOW SAINT PATHOS WAS USED AS A PEST-HOUSE.

The distemper had by this time increased to such a frightful extent, that the pest-houses being found wholly inadequate to contain the number of sick persons sent to them, it was resolved by the civic authorities, who had obtained the sanction of the Dean and Chapter of Saint Paul's for that purpose, to convert the cathedral into a receptacle for the infected. Accordingly, a meeting was held in the Convocation House to make final arrangements. It was attended by Sir John Lawrence, the Lord Mayor; by Sir George Waterman, and Sir Charles Doe, sheriffs; by Doctor Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury; by the Duke of Albemarle, the Earl of Craven, and, a few other zealous and humane persons. Several members of the College of Physicians were likewise present, and, amongst others, Doctor Hodges; and the expediency of the measure being fully agreed upon, it was determined to carry it into immediate execution.

The cloisters surrounding the Convocation House were crowded with sick persons, drawn thither by the rumour of what was going forward; and when the meeting adjourned to the cathedral, these unfortunate beings followed them, and were with some difficulty kept aloof from the uninfected by the attendants. A very earnest and touching address was next pronounced by the archbishop. Calling upon his hearers to look upon themselves as already dead to the world,—to regard the present visitation as a just punishment of their sins, and to rejoice that their sufferings would be so soon terminated, when, if they sincerely and heartily repented, they would at once be transported from the depths of wretchedness and misery to regions of unfading bliss; he concluded by stating that he, and all those around him, were prepared to devote themselves, without regard to their own safety, to the preservation of their fellow-citizens, and that they would leave nothing undone to stop the ravages of the devouring scourge.

It chanced that Leonard Holt was present on this occasion, and as he listened to the eloquent discourse of the archbishop, and gazed at the group around him, all equally zealous in the good cause, and equally regardless of themselves, he could not but indulge a hope that their exertions might be crowned with success. It was indeed a touching sight to see the melancholy congregation to whom his address was delivered—many, nay most of whom were on the verge of dissolution;—and Leonard Holt was so moved by the almost apostolic fervour of the prelate, that, but for the thought of Amabel, he might have followed the example of several of the auditors, and devoted himself altogether to the service of the sick.

His discourse concluded, the archbishop and most of his companions quitted the cathedral. Hodges, however, and three of the physicians, remained behind to superintend the necessary preparations. Shortly after, a large number of pallets were brought in, and ranged along the nave and aisles at short distances from each other; and, before night, the interior of the structure presented the complete appearance of an hospital. Acting under the directions of Doctor Hodges, Leonard Holt lent his assistance in arranging the pallets, in covering them with bedding and blankets, and in executing any other service required of him. A sufficient number of chirurgeons and nurses were then sent for, and such was the expedition used, that on that very night most of the pallets were occupied. Thus the cathedral underwent another afflicting change. A blight had come over it, mildewing its holy walls, and tainting and polluting its altars. Its aisles, once trodden by grave and reverend ecclesiastics, and subsequently haunted by rufflers, bullies, and other worthless characters, were now filled with miserable wretches, stricken with a loathsome and fatal distemper. Its chapels and shrines formerly adorned with rich sculptures and costly ornaments, but stripped of them at times when they were looked upon as idolatrous and profane, were now occupied by nurses, chirurgeons, and their attendants; while every niche and corner was filled with surgical implements, phials, drugs, poultices, foul rags, and linen.

In less than a week after it had been converted into a pest-house, the cathedral was crowded to overflowing. Upwards of three hundred pallets were set up in the nave, in the aisles, in the transepts, and in the choir, and even in the chapels. But these proving insufficient, many poor wretches who were brought thither were placed on the cold flags, and protected only by a single blanket. At night the scene was really terrific. The imperfect light borne by the attendants fell on the couches, and revealed the livid countenances of their occupants; while the vaulted roof rang with shrieks and groans so horrible and heart-piercing as to be scarcely endured, except by those whose nerves were firmly strung, or had become blunted by their constant recurrence. At such times, too, some unhappy creature, frenzied by agony, would burst from his couch, and rend the air with his cries, until overtaken and overpowered by his attendants. On one occasion, it happened that a poor wretch, who had been thus caught, broke loose a second time, and darting through a door leading to the stone staircase in the northern transept gained the ambulatory, and being closely followed, to escape his pursuers, sprang through one of the arched openings, and falling from a height of near sixty feet, was dashed in pieces on the flagged floor beneath.

A walk through this mighty lazar-house would have furnished a wholesome lesson to the most reckless observer. It seemed to contain all the sick of the city. And yet it was not so. Hundreds were expiring in their own dwellings, and the other pest-houses continued crowded as before. Still, as a far greater number of the infected were here congregated, and could be seen at one view, the picture was incomparably more impressive. Every part of the cathedral was occupied. Those who could not find room inside it crouched beneath the columns of the portico on rugs or blankets, and implored the chirurgeons as they passed to attend them. Want of room also drove others into Saint Faith's, and here the scene was, if possible, more hideous. In this dismal region it was found impossible to obtain a free circulation of air, and consequently the pestilential effluvia, unable to escape, acquired such malignancy, that it was almost certain destruction to inhale it. After a time, few of the nurses and attendants would venture thither; and to take a patient to Saint Faith's was considered tantamount to consigning him to the grave.

Whether Judith Malmayns had succeeded or not in curing Sir Paul Parravicin, it is not our present purpose to relate. Soon after the cathedral was converted into a lazar-house she returned thither, and, in spite of the opposition of Doctor Hodges, was appointed one of the nurses. It must not be supposed that her appointment was the result of any ill design. Such was the difficulty of obtaining attendance, that little choice was left, and the nurses being all of questionable character, it was supposed she was only a shade worse than her fellows, while she was known to be active and courageous. And this was speedily proved; for when Saint Faith's was deserted by the others, she remained at her post, and quitted it neither night nor day. A large pit was digged in the open space at the north-east corner of the cathedral, and to this great numbers of bodies were nightly conveyed by Chowles and Jonas. But it was soon filled, and they were compelled to resort, as before, to Finsbury Fields, and to another vast pit near Aldgate. When not engaged in this revolting employment, Chowles took up his quarters in the crypt, where, in spite of his propinquity to the sick, he indulged himself in his customary revelry. He and Judith had amassed, in one way or other, a vast quantity of spoil, and frequently planned how they would spend it when the pestilence ceased. Their treasure was carefully concealed in a cell in one of the secret passages with which they were acquainted, leading from Saint Faith's to the upper structure.

One night, on his return from Finsbury Fields, as Chowles was seated in the crypt, with a pipe in his mouth, and a half-finished flask of wine before him, he was startled by the sudden entrance of Judith, who, rushing up to him, seized him by the throat, and almost choked him before he could extricate himself.

"What is the matter?—would you strangle me, you murderous harridan?" he cried.

"Ay, that I would," replied Judith, preparing to renew the attack.

"Stand off!" rejoined Chowles, springing back, and snatching up a spade, "or I will dash out your brains. Are you mad?" he continued, gazing fearfully at her.

"I am angry enough to make me so," she replied, shaking her clenched fists at him. "But I will be revenged—revenged, I tell you."

"Revenged!" cried Chowles, in astonishment—"for what! What have I done!"

"You do well to affect ignorance," rejoined Judith, "but you cannot deceive me. No one but you can have done it."

"Done what!" exclaimed Chowles, in increased astonishment. "Has our hoard been discovered?"

"Ay, and been carried off—by you—you!" screamed Judith, with a look worthy of a fury.

"By my soul, you are wrong," cried Chowles. "I have never touched it,—never even approached the hiding-place, except in your presence."

"Liar!" returned Judith, "the whole hoard is gone;—the plunder I obtained in Newgate,—the Earl of Rochester's plate,—all the rings, trinkets, and rich apparel I have picked up since,—everything is gone;—and who but you can be the robber?"

"It is difficult to say," rejoined Chowles. "But I swear to you, you suspect me wrongfully."

"Restore it," replied Judith, "or tell me where it is hidden. If not, I will be the death of you?"

"Let us go to the hiding-place," replied Chowles, whose uneasiness was not diminished by the menace. "You may be mistaken, and I hope you are."

Though he uttered the latter part of his speech with seeming confidence, his heart misgave him. To conceal his trepidation, he snatched up a lamp, and passing through the secret door, hurried along the narrow stone passage. He was about to open the cell, when he perceived near it the tall figure of the enthusiast.

"There is the robber," he cried to Judith. "I have found him. It is Solomon Eagle. Villain! you have purloined our hoard!"

"I have done so," replied Solomon Eagle, "and I will carry off all other spoil you may obtain. Think not to hide it from me. I can watch you when you see me not, and track you when you suppose me afar off."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Chowles, trembling. "I begin to think he is possessed of supernatural power," he added, in an undertone to Judith.

"Go on," pursued Solomon Eagle, "continue to plunder and destroy. Pursue your guilty career, and see what reward you will reap."

"Restore what you have robbed us of," cried Judith in a menacing tone, "or dread the consequences."

"Woman, you threaten idly," returned Solomon Eagle. "Your ill-gotten treasure is gone—whither, you will never know. Get hence!" he added, in a terrible tone, "or I will rid the earth of you both."

So awed were they by his voice and gestures, that they slunk away with a discomfited air, and returned to the crypt.

"If we are always to be robbed in this manner," observed Chowles, "we had better shift our quarters, and practise elsewhere."