"No," replied Judith; "I was merely jesting with him."

"Shame on you, to trifle with his feelings thus," rejoined Thirlby. "Step with me this way, young man, I wish to speak with you."

"Do not leave me here, Leonard," cried Blaize, "or I shall die before you come back."

"I have no intention of leaving you," rejoined Leonard. "Are you aware whether Doctor Hodges is still alive, sir?" he added to Thirlby. "I have just been to his residence in Great Knight-rider-street, and found it shut up."

"He has removed to Watling-street," replied the other; "but I have not seen him since my return to London. If you wish it, I will go to his house at once, and send him to look after your poor friend."

Leonard was about to return thanks for the offer, when the design was frustrated by Blaize himself, who was so terrified by Judith's looks, that he could pay no attention to what was going forward; and fearing, notwithstanding Leonard's assurance to the contrary, that he should be left behind, he started to his feet, and wrapping the blanket about him, ran up the steps leading to the cathedral. Leonard and Thirlby followed, and seeing him dart into the southern aisle, would have pursued him along it, but were afraid of coming in contact with the many sick persons by whom it was thronged. They contented themselves, therefore, with watching his course, and were not a little surprised and alarmed to find the whole troop of lazars set off after him, making the sacred walls ring with their cries. Frightened by the clamour, Blaize redoubled his speed, and, with this ghastly train at his heels, crossed the lower part of the mid-aisle, and darting through the pillars, took refuge within Bishop Kempe's Chapel, the door of which stood open, and which he instantly closed after him. Judith, who had followed the party from the subterranean church, laughed heartily at the chase of the poor porter, and uttered an exclamation of regret at its sudden conclusion. Leonard, however, being apprehensive of mischief from the crowd of sick persons collected before the door, some of whom were knocking against it and trying to force it open, addressed himself to a couple of the attendants, and prevailed on them to accompany him to the chapel. The assemblage was speedily dispersed, and Blaize hearing Leonard's voice, instantly opened the door and admitted him; and, as soon as his fears were allayed, he was placed on a pallet within the chapel, and wrapped up in blankets, while such remedies as were deemed proper were administered to him. Committing him to the care of the attendants, and promising to reward them well for their trouble, Leonard told Blaize he should go and bring Doctor Hodges to him. Accordingly, he departed, and finding Thirlby waiting for him at the south door, they went forth together.

"I am almost afraid of leaving the poor fellow," said Leonard, hesitating as he was about to descends the steps. "Judith Malmayns is so cunning and unscrupulous, that she may find some means of doing him an injury."

"Have no fear," replied Thirlby; "she has promised me not to molest him further."

"You appear to have a strange influence over her, then," observed Leonard. "May I ask how you have attained it?"

"No matter," replied the other. "It must suffice that I am willing to exercise it in your behalf."

"And you are not disposed to tell me the nature of the interest you feel in Nizza Macascree?" pursued Leonard.

"Not as yet," replied Thirlby, with a look and tone calculated to put a stop to further inquiries.

Passing through Saint Austin's Gate, they approached Watling-street, at the corner of which stood the house where Doctor Hodges had taken up his temporary abode, that he might visit the sick in the cathedral with greater convenience, and be more readily summoned whenever his attendance might be required. Thirlby's knock at the door was answered, to Leonard's great satisfaction, by the old porter, who was equally delighted to see him.

It did not escape Leonard that the porter treated the stranger with great respect, and he inferred from this that he was a person of some consideration, as indeed his deportment bespoke him. The old man informed them that his master had been summoned on a case of urgency early in the morning, and had not yet returned, neither was he aware whither he was gone. He promised, however, to acquaint him with Blaize's condition immediately on his return—"and I need not assure you," he added to Leonard, "that he will instantly go to him." Thirlby then inquired of the porter whether Mike Macascree, the blind piper, was still at Dame Lucas's cottage, in Finsbury Fields, and was answered in the affirmative by the old man, who added, however, in a voice of much emotion, that the good dame herself was no more.

"She died about a fortnight ago of the plague," he said, "and is buried where she desired to be, beneath an old apple-tree in her garden."

"Alas!" exclaimed Leonard, brushing away a tear, "her own foreboding is too truly realised."

"I am about to visit the old piper," observed Thirlby to the apprentice. "Will you go with me?"

The other readily acquiesced, only stipulating that they should call in Wood-street on the way, that he might inquire whether his master wanted him. Thirlby agreeing to this, and the old porter repeating his assurance that Leonard might make himself quite easy as to Blaize, for he would send his master to him the instant he returned, they set out. On reaching Wood-street the apprentice gave the customary signal, and the grocer answering it, he informed him of his unexpected meeting with Blaize, and of the state in which he had left him. Mr. Bloundel was much distressed by the intelligence, and telling Leonard that he should not require him again that night, besought him to observe the utmost caution. This the apprentice promised, and joining Thirlby, who had walked forward to a little distance, they struck into a narrow street on the right, and proceeding along Aldermanbury, soon arrived at the first postern in the city walls beyond Cripplegate.

Hitherto, Thirlby had maintained a profound silence, and appeared lost in melancholy reflection. Except now and then casting a commiserating glance at the wretched objects they encountered on the road, he kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the ground, and walked at a brisky pace, as if desirous of getting out of the city as quickly as possible. Notwithstanding his weakness, Leonard managed to keep up with him, and his curiosity being greatly aroused by what had just occurred, he began to study his appearance and features attentively. Thirlby was full six feet in height, and possessed a powerful and well-proportioned figure, and would have been considered extremely handsome but for a certain sinister expression about the eyes, which were large and dark, but lighted by a fierce and peculiar fire. His complexion was dark, and his countenance still bore the impress of the dreadful disease from which he had recently recovered. A gloomy shade sat about his brow, and it seemed to Leonard as if he had been led by his passions into the commission of crimes of which he had afterwards bitterly repented. His deportment was proud and commanding, and though he exhibited no haughtiness towards the apprentice, but, on the contrary, treated him with great familiarity, it was plain he did so merely from a sense of gratitude. His age was under forty, and his habiliments were rich, though of a sombre colour.

Passing through the postern, which stood wide open, the watchman having disappeared, they entered a narrow lane, skirted by a few detached houses, all of which were shut up, and marked by the fatal cross. As they passed one of these habitations, they were arrested by loud and continued shrieks of the most heart-rending nature, and questioning a watchman who stood at an adjoining door, as to the cause of them, he said they proceeded from a poor lady who had just lost the last of her family by the plague.

"Her husband and all her children, except one daughter, died last week," said the man, "and though she seemed deeply afflicted, yet she bore her loss with resignation. Yesterday, her daughter was taken ill, and she died about two hours ago, since when the poor mother has done nothing but shriek in the way you hear. Poor soul! she will die of grief, as many have done before her at this awful time."

"Something must be done to pacify her," returned Thirlby, in a voice of much emotion,—"she must be removed from her child."

"Where can she be removed to?" rejoined the watchman. "Who will receive her?"

"At all events, we can remove the object that occasions her affliction," rejoined Thirlby. "My heart bleeds for her. I never heard shrieks so dreadful."

"The dead-cart will pass by in an hour," said the watchman; "and then the body can be taken away."

"An hour will be too late," rejoined Thirlby. "If she continues in this frantic state, she will be dead before that time. You have a hand-barrow there. Take the body to the plague-pit at once, and I will reward you for your trouble."

"We shall find some difficulty in getting into the house," said the watchman, who evidently felt some repugnance to the task.

"Not so," replied Thirlby. And pushing forcibly against the door, he burst it open, and, directed by the cries, entered a room on the right. The watchman's statement proved correct. Stretched upon a bed in one corner lay the body of a beautiful girl, while the poor mother was bending over it in a state bordering on distraction. On seeing Thirlby, she fled to the further end of the room, but did not desist from her cries. In fact, she was unable to do so, being under the dominion of the wildest hysterical passion. In vain Thirlby endeavoured to make her comprehend by signs the nature of his errand. Waving him off, she continued shrieking more loudly than ever. Half-stunned by the cries, and greatly agitated by the sight of the child, whose appearance reminded him of his own daughter, Thirlby motioned the watchman, who had followed him into the room, to bring away the body, and rushed forth. His injunctions were obeyed. The remains of the unfortunate girl were wrapped in a sheet, and deposited in the hand-barrow. The miserable mother followed the watchman to the door, but did not attempt to interfere with him, and having seen the body of her child disposed of in the manner above described, turned back. The next moment, a heavy sound proclaimed that she had fallen to the ground, and her shrieks were hushed. Thirlby and Leonard exchanged sad and significant looks, but neither of them went back to see what had happened to her. The watchman shook his head, and setting the barrow in motion, proceeded along a narrow footpath across the fields. Remarking that he did not take the direct road to the plague-pit, Leonard called to him, and pointed out the corner in which it lay.

"I know where the old plague-pit is, as well as you," replied the watchman, "but it has been filled these three weeks. The new pit lies in this direction." So saying, he pursued his course, and they presently entered a field, in the middle of which lay the plague-pit, as was evident from the immense mound of clay thrown out of the excavation.

"That pit is neither so deep nor so wide as the old one," said the watchman, "and if the plague goes on at this rate, they will soon have to dig another—that is, if any one should be left alive to undertake the job."

And chuckling as if he had said a good thing, he impelled his barrow forward more quickly. A few seconds brought them near the horrible chasm. It was more than half full, and in all respects resembled the other pit, except that it was somewhat smaller. There was the same heaving and putrefying mass,—the same ghastly objects of every kind,—the grey-headed old man, the dark-haired maiden, the tender infant,—all huddled together. Wheeling the barrow to the edge of the pit, the watchman cast his load into it; and without even tarrying to throw a handful of soil over it, turned back, and rejoined Thirlby, who had halted at some distance from the excavation. While the latter was searching for his purse to reward the watchman, they heard wild shrieks in the adjoining field, and the next moment perceived the wretched mother running towards them. Guessing her purpose from his former experience, Leonard called to the others to stop her, and stretching out his arms, placed himself in her path. But all their efforts were in vain. She darted past them, and though Leonard caught hold of her, she broke from him, and leaving a fragment of her dress in his grasp, flung herself into the chasm.

Well knowing that all help was vain, Thirlby placed a few pieces of money in the watchman's hand, and hurried away. He was followed by Leonard, who was equally eager to quit the spot. It so chanced that the path they had taken led them near the site of the old plague-pit, and Leonard pointed it out to his companion. The latter stopped for a moment, and then, without saying a word, ran quickly towards it. On reaching the spot, they found that the pit was completely filled up. The vast cake of clay with which it was covered had swollen and cracked in an extraordinary manner, and emitted such a horrible effluvium that they both instantly retreated.

"And that is the grave of my poor child," cried Thirlby, halting, and bursting into a passionate flood of tears. "It would have been a fitting resting-place for a guilty wretch like me; but for her it is horrible."

Allowing time for the violence of his grief to subside, Leonard addressed a few words of consolation to him, and then tried to turn the current of his thoughts by introducing a different subject. With this view, he proceeded to detail the piper's mysterious conduct as to the packet, and concluded by mentioning the piece of gold which Nizza wore as an amulet, and which she fancied must have some connection with her early history.

"I have heard of the packet and amulet from Doctor Hodges," said Thirlby, "and should have visited the piper on my recovery from the plague, but I was all impatience to behold Nizza, and could not brook an instant's delay. But you know his cottage. We cannot be far from it."

"Yonder it is," replied Leonard, pointing to the little habitation, which lay at a field's distance from them—"and we are certain to meet with him, for I hear the notes of his pipe."

Nor was he deceived, for as they crossed the field, and approached the cottage, the sounds of a melancholy air played on the pipe became each instant more distinct. Before entering the gate, they paused for a moment to listen to the music, and Leonard could not help contrasting the present neglected appearance of the garden with the neatness it exhibited when he last saw it. It was overgrown with weeds, while the drooping flowers seemed to bemoan the loss of their mistress. Leonard's gaze involuntarily wandered in search of the old apple-tree, and he presently discovered it. It was loaded with fruit, and the rounded sod beneath it proclaimed the grave of the ill-fated Dame Lucas.

Satisfied with this survey, Leonard opened the gate, but had no sooner set foot in the garden than the loud barking of a dog was heard, and Bell rushed forth. Leonard instantly called to her, and on hearing his voice, the little animal instantly changed her angry tones to a gladsome whine, and, skipping towards him, fawned at his feet. While he stooped to caress her, the piper, who had been alarmed by the barking, appeared at the door, and called out to know who was there? At the sight of him, Thirlby, who was close behind Leonard, uttered a cry of surprise, and exclaiming, "It is he!" rushed towards him.

The cry of recognition uttered by the stranger caused the piper to start as if he had received a sudden and violent shock. The ruddy tint instantly deserted his cheek, and was succeeded by a deadly paleness; his limbs trembled, and he bent forward with a countenance of the utmost anxiety, as if awaiting a confirmation of his fears. When within a couple of yards of him, Thirlby paused, and having narrowly scrutinized his features, as if to satisfy himself he was not mistaken, again exclaimed, though in a lower and deeper tone than before, "It is he!" and seizing his arm, pushed him into the house, banging the door to after him in such a manner as to leave no doubt in the apprentice's mind that his presence was not desired. Accordingly, though extremely anxious to hear what passed between them, certain their conversation must relate to Nizza Macascree, Leonard did not attempt to follow, but, accompanied by Bell, who continued to gambol round him, directed his steps towards the grave of Dame Lucas. Here he endeavoured to beguile the time in meditation, but in spite of his efforts to turn his thoughts into a different channel, they perpetually recurred to what he supposed to be taking place inside the house. The extraordinary effect produced by Nizza Macascree on Thirlby—the resemblance he had discovered between her and some person dear to him—the anxiety he appeared to feel for her, as evinced by his recent search for her—the mysterious connection which clearly subsisted between him and the piper—all these circumstances convinced Leonard that Thirlby was, or imagined himself, connected by ties of the closest relationship with the supposed piper's daughter.

Leonard had never been able to discern the slightest resemblance either in manner or feature, or in those indescribably slight personal peculiarities that constitute a family likeness, between Nizza and her reputed father—neither could he now recall any particular resemblance between her and Thirlby; still he could not help thinking her beauty and high-bred looks savoured more of the latter than the former. He came, therefore, to the conclusion that she must be the offspring of some early and unfortunate attachment on the part of Thirlby, whose remorse might naturally be the consequence of his culpable conduct at that time. His sole perplexity was the piper's connection with the affair; but he got over this difficulty by supposing that Nizza's mother, whoever she was, must have committed her to Macascree's care when an infant, probably with strict injunctions, which circumstances might render necessary, to conceal her even from her father. Such was Leonard's solution of the mystery; and feeling convinced that he had made himself master of the stranger's secret, he resolved to give him to understand as much as soon as he beheld him again.

More than half an hour having elapsed, and Thirlby not coming forth, Leonard began to think sufficient time had been allowed him for private conference with the piper, and he therefore walked towards the door, and coughing to announce his approach, raised the latch and entered the house. He found the pair seated close together, and conversing in a low and earnest tone. The piper had completely recovered from his alarm, and seemed perfectly at ease with his companion, while all traces of anger had disappeared from the countenance of the other. Before them on the table lay several letters, taken from a packet, the cover of which Leonard recognised as the one that had been formerly intrusted to him. Amidst them was the miniature of a lady—at least, it appeared so to Leonard, in the hasty glance he caught of it; but he could not be quite sure; for on seeing him, Thirlby closed the case, and placing his hand on the piper's mouth, to check his further speech, arose.

"Forgive my rudeness," he said to the apprentice; "but I have been so deeply interested in what I have just heard, that I quite forgot you were waiting without. I shall remain here some hours longer, but will not detain you, especially as I am unable to admit you to our conference. I will meet you at Doctor Hodges's in the evening, and shall have much to say to you."

"I can anticipate some part of your communication," replied Leonard. "You will tell me you have a daughter still living."

"You are inquisitive, young man," rejoined Thirlby, sternly.

"You do me wrong, sir," replied Leonard. "I have no curiosity as regards yourself; and if I had, would never lower myself in my own estimation to gratify it. Feeling a strong interest in Nizza Macascree, I am naturally anxious to know whether my suspicion that a near relationship subsists between yourself and her is correct."

"I cannot enter into further explanation now," returned Thirlby. "Meet me at Doctor Hodges's this evening, and you shall know more. And now farewell. I am in the midst of a deeply-interesting conversation, which your presence interrupts. Do not think me rude—do not think me ungrateful. My anxiety must plead my excuse."

"None is necessary, sir," replied Leonard. "I will no longer place any restraint upon you."

So saying, and taking care not to let Bell out, he passed through the door, and closed it after him. Having walked to some distance across the fields, musing on what had just occurred, and scarcely conscious whither he was going, he threw himself down on the grass, and fell asleep. He awoke after some time much refreshed, and finding he was considerably nearer Bishopsgate than any other entrance into the city, determined to make for it. A few minutes brought him to a row of houses without the walls, none of which appeared to have escaped infection, and passing them, he entered the city gate. As he proceeded along the once-crowded but now utterly-deserted thoroughfare that opened upon him, he could scarcely believe he was in a spot which had once been the busiest of the busy haunts of men—so silent, so desolate did it appear! On reaching Cornhill, he found it equally deserted. The Exchange was closed, and as Leonard looked at its barred gates, a saddening train of reflection passed through his mind. His head declined upon his breast, and he continued lost in a mournful reverie until he was roused by a hand laid upon his shoulder, and starting—for such a salutation at this season was alarming—he looked round, and beheld Solomon Eagle.

"You are looking upon that structure," said the enthusiast, "and are thinking how much it is changed. Men who possess boundless riches imagine their power above that of their Maker, and suppose they may neglect and defy him. But they are mistaken. Where are now the wealthy merchants who used to haunt those courts and chambers?—why do they not come here as of old?—why do they not buy and sell, and send their messengers and ships to the farthest parts of the world? Because the Lord hath smitten them and driven them forth—'From the least of them even to the greatest of them,' as the prophet Jeremiah saith, 'every one has been given to covetousness.' The balances of deceit have been in their hands. They have cozened their neighbours, and greedily gained from them, and will find it true what the prophet Ezekiel hath written, that 'the Lord will pour out his indignation upon them, and consume them with the fire of his wrath.' Yea, I tell you, unless they turn from their evil ways—unless they cast aside the golden idol they now worship, and set up the Holy One of Israel in its stead, a fire will be sent to consume them, and that pile which they have erected as a temple to their god shall be burnt to the ground."

Leonard's heart was too full to make any answer, and the enthusiast, after a brief pause, again addressed him. "Have you seen Doctor Hodges pass this way? I am in search of him."

"On what account?" asked Leonard anxiously. "His advice, I trust, is not needed on behalf of any one in whom I am interested."

"No matter," replied Solomon Eagle, in a sombre tone; "have you seen him?"

"I have not," rejoined the apprentice; "but he is probably at Saint Paul's."

"I have just left the cathedral, and was told he had proceeded to some house near Cornhill," rejoined the enthusiast.

"If you have been there, you can perhaps tell me how my master's porter, Blaize Shotterel, is getting on," said Leonard.

"I can," replied the enthusiast. "I heard one of the chirurgeons say that Doctor Hodges had pronounced him in a fair way of recovery. But I must either find the doctor or go elsewhere. Farewell!"

"I will go with you in search of him," said Leonard.

"No, no; you must not—shall not," cried Solomon Eagle.

"Wherefore not?" asked the apprentice.

"Do not question me, but leave me," rejoined the enthusiast.

"Do you know aught of Amabel—of her retreat?" persisted Leonard, who had a strange misgiving that the enthusiast's errand in some way referred to her.

"I do," replied Solomon Eagle, gloomily; "but I again advise you not to press me further."

"Answer me one question at least," cried Leonard. "Is she with the Earl of Rochester?"

"She is," replied Solomon Eagle; "but I shall allay your fears in that respect when I tell you she is sick of the plague."

Leonard heard nothing more, for, uttering a wild shriek, he fell to the ground insensible. He was aroused to consciousness by a sudden sense of strangulation, and opening his eyes, beheld two dark figures bending over him, one of whom was kneeling on his chest. A glance showed him that this person was Chowles; and instantly comprehending what was the matter, and aware that the coffin-maker was stripping him previously to throwing him into the dead-cart, which was standing hard by, he cried aloud, and struggled desperately to set himself free. Little opposition was offered; for, on hearing the cry, Chowles quitted his hold, and retreating to a short distance, exclaimed, with a look of surprise, "Why, the fellow is not dead, after all!"

"I am neither dead, nor likely to die, as you shall find to your cost, rascal, if you do not restore me the clothes you have robbed me of," cried Leonard, furiously. And chancing to perceive a fork, dropped by Chowles in his hasty retreat, he snatched it up, and, brandishing it over his head, advanced towards him. Thus threatened, Chowles tossed him a rich suit of livery.

"These are not mine," said the apprentice, gazing at the habiliments.

"They are better than your own," replied Chowles, "and therefore you ought to be glad of the exchange. But give me them back again. I have no intention of making you a present."

"This is the livery of the Earl of Rochester," cried Leonard.

"To be sure it is," replied Chowles, with a ghastly smile. "One of his servants is just dead."

"Where is the profligate noble?" cried Leonard, eagerly.

"There is the person who owned these clothes," replied Chowles, pointing to the dead-cart. "You had better ask him."

"Where is the Earl of Rochester, I say, villain?" cried Leonard, menacingly.

"How should I know?" rejoined Chowles. "Here are your clothes," he added, pushing them towards him.

"I will have an answer," cried Leonard.

"Not from me," replied Chowles. And hastily snatching up the livery, he put the cart in motion, and proceeded on his road. Leonard would have followed him, but the state of his attire did not permit him to do so. Having dressed himself, he hastened to the cathedral, where he soon found the attendant who had charge of Blaize.

"Doctor Hodges has been with him," said the man, in reply to his inquiries after the porter, "and has good hopes of him. But the patient is not entirely satisfied with the treatment he has received, and wishes to try some remedies of his own. Were his request granted, all would soon be over with him."

"That I am sure of," replied Leonard. "But let us go to him."

"You must not heed his complaints," returned the attendant. "I assure you he is doing as well as possible; but he is so dreadfully frightened at a trifling operation which Doctor Hodges finds it necessary to perform upon him, that we have been obliged to fasten him to the bed."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard, suspiciously. "Has Judith Malmayns had no hand in this arrangement?"

"Judith Malmayns has been absent during the whole of the afternoon," said the man, "and another nurse has taken her place in Saint Faith's. She has never been near Blaize since I have had charge of him."

By this time they had reached the pallet in which the porter was laid. His eyes and a small portion of his snub-nose were alone visible, his head being still enveloped by the linen cloth, while his mouth was covered by blankets. He looked so anxiously at the apprentice, that the latter removed the covering from his mouth, and enabled him to speak.

"I am glad to find you are getting on so well," said Leonard, in a cheerful tone. "Doctor Hodges has been with you, I understand?"

"He has," groaned Blaize; "but he has done me no good—none whatever. I could doctor myself much better, if I might be allowed; for I know every remedy that has been prescribed for the plague; but he would adopt none that I mentioned to him. I wanted him to place a hot loaf, fresh from the oven, to the tumour, to draw it; but he would not consent. Then I asked for a cataplasm, composed of radish-roots, mustard-seed, onions and garlic roasted, mithridate, salt, and soot from a chimney where wood only has been burnt. This he liked no better than the first. Next, I begged for an ale posset with pimpernel soaked in it, assuring him that by frequently drinking such a mixture, Secretary Naunton drew the infection from his very heart. But the doctor would have none of it, and seemed to doubt the fact."

"What did he do?" inquired Leonard.

"He applied oil of St. John's wort to the tumour," replied Blaize, with a dismal groan, and said, "if the scar did not fall off, he must cauterize it. Oh! I shall never be able to bear the pain of the operation."

"Recollect your life is at stake," rejoined Leonard. "You must either submit to it or die."

"I know I must," replied Blaize, with a prolonged groan; "but it is a terrible alternative."

"You will not find the operation so painful as you imagine," rejoined Leonard; "and you know I speak from personal experience."

"You give me great comfort," said Blaize. "And so you really think I shall get better?"

"I have no doubt of it, if you keep up your spirits," replied Leonard. "The worst is evidently over. Behave like a man."

"I will try to do so," rejoined Blaize. "I have been told that if a circle is drawn with a blue sapphire round a plague-blotch, it will fall off. Couldn't we just try the experiment?"

"It will not do to rely upon it," observed the attendant, with a smile. "You will find a small knob of red-hot iron, which we call the 'button,' much more efficacious."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" exclaimed Blaize, "I already feel that dreadful button burning into my flesh."

"On the contrary, you won't feel it at all," replied the attendant. "The iron only touches the point of the tumour, in which there is no sensibility."

"In that case, I don't care how soon the operation is performed," replied Blaize.

"Doctor Hodges will choose his own time for it," said the attendant. "In the mean time, here is a cup of barley-broth for you. You will find it do you good."

While the man applied the cup to the poor porter's lips—for he would not unloose the straps, for fear of mischief—Leonard, who was sickened by the terrible scene around him, took his departure, and quitted the cathedral by the great western entrance. Seating himself on one of the great blocks of stone left there by the workmen employed in repairing the cathedral, but who had long since abandoned their task, he thought over all that had recently occurred. Raising his eyes at length, he looked toward the cathedral. The oblique rays of the sun had quitted the columns of the portico, which looked cold and grey, while the roof and towers were glittering in light. In ten minutes more, only the summit of the central tower caught the last reflection of the declining orb. Leonard watched the rosy gleam till it disappeared, and then steadfastly regarded the reverend pile as its hue changed from grey to black, until at length each pinnacle and buttress, each battlement and tower, was lost in one vast indistinct mass. Night had fallen upon the city—a night destined to be more fatal than any that had preceded it; and yet it was so calm, so beautiful, so clear, that it was scarcely possible to imagine that it was unhealthy. The destroying angel was, however, fearfully at work. Hundreds were falling beneath his touch; and as Leonard wondered how many miserable wretches were at that moment released from suffering, it crossed him like an icy chill, that among the number might be Amabel. So forcibly was he impressed by this idea, that he fell on his knees and prayed aloud.

He was aroused by hearing the ringing of a bell, which announced the approach of the dead-cart, and presently afterwards the gloomy vehicle approached from Ludgate-hill, and moved slowly towards the portico of the cathedral, where it halted. A great number of the dead were placed within it, and the driver, ringing his bell, proceeded in the direction of Cheapside. A very heavy dew had fallen; for as Leonard put his hand to his clothes, they felt damp, and his long hair was filled with moisture. Reproaching himself with having needlessly exposed himself to risk, he was about to walk away, when he heard footsteps at a little distance, and looking in the direction of the sound, perceived the tall figure of Thirlby. Calling to him, the other, who appeared to be in haste, halted for a moment, and telling the apprentice he was going to Doctor Hodges's, desired him to accompany him thither, and went on.

* * * * *

III.

THE HOUSE IN NICHOLAS-LANE.

On reaching Watling-street, Leonard and his companion found Doctor Hodges was from home. This did not much surprise the apprentice, after the information he had received from Solomon Eagle, but Thirlby was greatly disappointed, and eagerly questioned the porter as to the probable time of his master's return. The man replied that it was quite uncertain, adding, "He has been in since you were last here, and has seen Blaize. He had not been gone to the cathedral many minutes when a gentleman arrived, desiring his instant attendance upon a young woman who was sick of the plague."

"Did you hear her name?" asked Leonard and Thirlby, in a breath.

"No," replied the porter, "neither did I obtain any information respecting her from the gentleman, who appeared in great distress. But I observed that my master, on his return, looked much surprised at seeing him, and treated him with a sort of cold respect."

"Was the gentleman young or old?" demanded Leonard, hastily.

"As far as I noticed," replied the porter, "for he kept his face covered with a handkerchief, I should say he was young—very young."

"You are sure it was not Lord Rochester?" pursued Leonard.

"How should I be sure of it," rejoined the porter, "since I have never seen his lordship that I am aware of? But I will tell you all that happened, and you can judge for yourselves. My master, as I have just said, on seeing the stranger, looked surprised and angry, and bowing gravely, conducted him to his study, taking care to close the door after him. I did not, of course, hear what passed, but the interview was brief enough, and the gentleman, issuing forth, said, as he quitted the room, 'You will not fail to come?' To which my master replied, 'Certainly not, on the terms I have mentioned.' With this, the gentleman hurried out of the house. Shortly afterwards the doctor came out, and said to me, 'I am going to attend a young woman who is sick of the plague, and may be absent for some time. If Mr. Thirlby or Leonard Holt should call, detain them till my return.'"

"My heart tells me that the young woman he is gone to visit is no other than Amabel," said Leonard Holt, sorrowfully.

"I suspect it is Nizza Macascree," cried Thirlby. "Which way did your master take?"

"I did not observe," replied the porter, "but he told me he should cross London Bridge."

"I will go into Southwark in quest of him," said Thirlby. "Every moment is of consequence now."

"You had better stay where you are," replied the old porter. "It is the surest way to meet with him."

Thirlby, however, was too full of anxiety to listen to reason, and his impatience producing a corresponding effect upon Leonard, though from a different motive, they set forth together. "If I fail to find him, you may expect me back ere long," were Thirlby's last words to the porter. Hurrying along Watling-street, and taking the first turning on the right, he descended to Thames-street, and made the best of his way towards the bridge. Leonard followed him closely, and they pursued their rapid course in silence. By the time they reached the north gate of the bridge, Leonard found his strength failing him, and halting at one of the openings between the tall houses overlooking the river, where there was a wooden bench for the accommodation of passengers, he sank upon it, and begged Thirlby to go on, saying he would return to Watling-street as soon as he recovered from his exhaustion. Thirlby did not attempt to dissuade him from his purpose, but instantly disappeared.

The night, it has before been remarked, was singularly beautiful. It was almost as light as day, for the full harvest moon (alas! there was no harvest for it to smile upon!) having just risen, revealed every object with perfect distinctness. The bench on which Leonard was seated lay on the right side of the bridge, and commanded a magnificent reach of the river, that flowed beneath like a sheet of molten silver. The apprentice gazed along its banks, and noticed the tall spectral-looking houses on the right, until his eye finally settled on the massive fabric of Saint Paul's, the roof and towers of which rose high above the lesser structures. His meditations were suddenly interrupted by the opening of a window in the house near him, while a loud splash in the water told that a body had been thrown into it. He turned away with a shudder, and at the same moment perceived a watchman, with a halberd upon his shoulder, advancing slowly towards him from the Southwark side of the bridge. Pausing as he drew near the apprentice, the watchman compassionately inquired whether he was sick, and being answered in the negative, was about to pass on, when Leonard, fancying he recognised his voice, stopped him.

"We have met somewhere before, friend," he said, "though where, or under what circumstances, I cannot at this moment call to mind."

"Not unlikely," returned the other, roughly, "but the chances are against our meeting again."

Leonard heaved a sigh at this remark. "I now recollect where I met you, friend," he remarked. "It was at Saint Paul's, when I was in search of my master's daughter, who had been carried off by the Earl of Rochester. But you were then in the garb of a smith."

"I recollect the circumstance, too, now you remind me of it," replied the other. "Your name is Leonard Holt as surely as mine is Robert Rainbird. I recollect, also, that you offended me about a dog belonging to the piper's pretty daughter, Nizza Macascree, which I was about to destroy in obedience to the Lord Mayor's commands. However, I bear no malice, and if I did, this is not a time to rip up old quarrels."

"You are right, friend," returned Leonard. "The few of us left ought to be in charity with each other."

"Truly, ought we," rejoined Rainbird. "For my own part, I have seen so much misery within the last few weeks, that my disposition is wholly changed. I was obliged to abandon my old occupation of a smith, because my master died of the plague, and there was no one else to employ me. I have therefore served as a watchman, and in twenty days have stood at the doors of more than twenty houses. It would freeze your blood were I to relate the scenes I have witnessed."

"It might have done formerly," replied Leonard; "but my feelings are as much changed as your own. I have had the plague twice myself."

"Then, indeed, you can speak," replied Rainbird. "Thank God, I have hitherto escaped it! Ah! these are terrible times—terrible times! The worst that ever London knew. Although I have been hitherto miraculously preserved myself, I am firmly persuaded no one will escape."

"I am almost inclined to agree with you," replied Leonard.

"For the last week the distemper has raged fearfully—fearfully, indeed," said Rainbird; "but yesterday and to-day have far exceeded all that have gone before. The distempered have died quicker than cattle of the murrain. I visited upwards of a hundred houses in the Borough this morning, and only found ten persons alive; and out of those ten, not one, I will venture to say, is alive now. It will, in truth, be a mercy if they are gone. There were distracted mothers raving over their children,—a young husband lamenting his wife,—two little children weeping over their dead parents, with none to attend them, none to feed them,—an old man mourning over his son cut off in his prime. In short, misery and distress in their worst form,—the streets ringing with shrieks and groans, and the numbers of dead so great that it was impossible to carry them off. You remember Solomon Eagle's prophecy?"

"Perfectly," replied Leonard; "and I lament to see its fulfilment."

"'The streets shall be covered with grass, and the living shall not be able to bury their dead,'—so it ran," said Rainbird. "And it has come to pass. Not a carriage of any description, save the dead-cart, is to be seen in the broadest streets of London, which are now as green as the fields without her walls, and as silent as the grave itself. Terrible times, as I said before—terrible times! The dead are rotting in heaps in the courts, in the alleys, in the very houses, and no one to remove them. What will be the end of it all? What will become of this great city?"

"It is not difficult to foresee what will become of it," replied Leonard, "unless it pleases the Lord to stay his vengeful arm. And something whispers in my ear that we are now at the worst. The scourge cannot exceed its present violence without working our ruin; and deeply as we have sinned, little as we repent, I cannot bring myself to believe that God will sweep his people entirely from the face of the earth."

"I dare not hope otherwise," rejoined Rainbird, "though I would fain do so. I discern no symptoms of abatement of the distemper, but, on the contrary, an evident increase of malignity, and such is the opinion of all I have spoken with on the subject. Chowles told me he buried two hundred more yesterday than he had ever done before, and yet he did not carry a third of the dead to the plague-pit. He is a strange fellow that Chowles. But for his passion for his horrible calling there is no necessity for him to follow it, for he is now one of the richest men in London."

"He must have amassed his riches by robbery, then," remarked Leonard.

"True," returned Rainbird. "He helps himself without scruple to the clothes, goods, and other property, of all who die of the pestilence; and after ransacking their houses, conveys his plunder in the dead-cart to his own dwelling."

"In Saint Paul's?" asked Leonard.

"No—a large house in Nicholas-lane, once belonging to a wealthy merchant, who perished, with his family, of the plague," replied Rainbird. "He has filled it from cellar to garret with the spoil he has obtained."

"And how has he preserved it?" inquired the apprentice.

"The plague has preserved it for him," replied Rainbird. "The few authorities who now act have, perhaps, no knowledge of his proceedings; or if they have, have not cared to interfere, awaiting a more favourable season, if it should ever arrive, to dispossess him of his hoard, and punish him for his delinquencies; while, in the mean time, they are glad, on any terms, to avail themselves of his services as a burier. Other people do not care to meddle with him, and the most daring robber would be afraid to touch infected money or clothes."

"If you are going towards Nicholas-lane," said Leonard, as if struck with a sudden idea, "and will point out to me the house in question, you will do me a favour."

Rainbird nodded assent, and they walked on together towards Fish-street-hill. Ascending it, and turning off on the right, they entered Great Eastcheap, but had not proceeded far when they were obliged to turn back, the street being literally choked up with a pile of carcasses deposited there by the burier's assistants. Shaping their course along Gracechurch-street, they turned off into Lombard-street, and as Leonard gazed at the goldsmiths' houses on either side, which were all shut up, with the fatal red cross on the doors, he could not help remarking to his companion, "The plague has not spared any of these on account of their riches."

"True," replied the other; "and of the thousands who used formerly to throng this street not one is left. Wo to London!—wo!—wo!"

Leonard echoed the sentiment, and fell into a melancholy train of reflection. It has been more than once remarked that the particular day now under consideration was the one in which the plague exercised its fiercest dominion over the city; and though at first its decline was as imperceptible as the gradual diminution of the day after the longest has passed, yet still the alteration began. On that day, as if death had known that his power was to be speedily arrested, he sharpened his fellest arrows, and discharged them with unerring aim. To pursue the course of the destroyer from house to house—to show with what unrelenting fury he assailed his victims—to describe their sufferings—to number the dead left within their beds, thrown into the streets, or conveyed to the plague-pits—would be to present a narrative as painful as revolting. On this terrible night it was as hot as if it had been the middle of June. No air was stirring, and the silence was so profound, that a slight noise was audible at a great distance. Hushed in the seemingly placid repose lay the great city, while hundreds of its inhabitants were groaning in agony, or breathing their last sigh.

On reaching the upper end of Nicholas-lane, Rainbird stood still for a moment, and pointed out a large house on the right, just below the old church dedicated to the saint from which the thoroughfare took its name. They were about to proceed towards it, when the smith again paused, and called Leonard's attention to two figures quickly advancing from the lower end of the street. As the apprentice and his companion stood in the shade, they could not be seen, while the two persons, being in the moonlight, were fully revealed. One of them, it was easy to perceive, was Chowles. He stopped before the door of his dwelling and unfastened it, and while he was thus occupied, the other person turned his face so as to catch the full radiance of the moon, disclosing the features of Sir Paul Parravicin. Before Leonard recovered from the surprise into which he was thrown by this unexpected discovery, they had entered the house.

He then hurried forward, but, to his great disappointment, found the door locked. Anxious to get into the house without alarming those who had preceded him, he glanced at the windows; but the shutters were closed and strongly barred. While hesitating what to do, Rainbird came up, and guessing his wishes, told him there was a door at the back of the house by which he might probably gain admittance. Accordingly they hastened down a passage skirting the churchyard, which brought them to a narrow alley lying between Nicholas-lane and Abchurch-lane. Tracking it for about twenty yards, Rainbird paused before a small yard-door, and trying the latch, found it yielded to his touch.

Crossing the yard, they came to another door. It was locked, and though they could have easily burst it open, they preferred having recourse to an adjoining window, the shutter of which, being carelessly fastened, was removed without noise or difficulty. In another moment they gained a small dark room on the ground-floor, whence they issued into a passage, where, to their great joy, they found a lighted lantern placed on a chair. Leonard hastily possessed himself of it, and was about to enter a room on the left when his companion arrested him.

"Before we proceed further," he said in a low voice, "I must know what you are about to do?"

"My purpose will be explained in a word," replied the apprentice in the same tone. "I suspect that Nizza Macascree is confined here by Sir Paul Parravicin and Chowles, and if it turns out I am right in my conjecture, I propose to liberate her. Will you help me?"

"Humph!" exclaimed Rainbird, "I don't much fancy the job. However, since I am here, I'll not go back. I am curious to see the coffin-maker's hoards. Look at yon heap of clothes. There are velvet doublets and silken hose enow to furnish wardrobes for a dozen court gallants. And yet, rich as the stuffs are, I would not put the best of them on for all the wealth of London."

"Nor I," replied Leonard. "I shall make free, however, with a sword," he added, selecting one from the heap. "I may need a weapon."

"I require nothing more than my halberd," observed the smith; "and I would advise you to throw away that velvet scabbard; it is a certain harbour for infection."

Leonard did not neglect the caution, and pushing open the door, they entered a large room which resembled an upholsterer's shop, being literally crammed with chairs, tables, cabinets, moveable cupboards, bedsteads, curtains, and hangings, all of the richest description.

"What I heard is true," observed Rainbird, gazing around in astonishment. "Chowles must have carried off every thing he could lay hands upon. What can he do with all that furniture?"

"What the miser does with his store," replied Leonard: "feast his eyes with it, but never use it."

They then proceeded to the next room. It was crowded with books, looking-glasses, and pictures; many of them originally of great value, but greatly damaged by the careless manner in which they were piled one upon another. A third apartment was filled with flasks of wine, with casks probably containing spirits, and boxes, the contents of which they did not pause to examine. A fourth contained male and female habiliments, spread out like the dresses in a theatrical wardrobe. Most of these garments were of the gayest and costliest description, and of the latest fashion, and Leonard sighed as he looked upon them, and thought of the fate of those they had so lately adorned.

"There is contagion enough in those clothes to infect a whole city," said Rainbird, who regarded them with different feelings. "I have half a mind to set fire to them."

"It were a good deed to do so," returned Leonard; "but it must not be done now. Let us go upstairs. These are the only rooms below."

Accordingly, they ascended the staircase, and entered chamber after chamber, all of which were as full of spoil as those they had just visited; but they could find no one, nor was there any symptom that the house was tenanted. They next stood still within the gallery, and listened intently for some sound to reveal those they sought, but all was still and silent as the grave.

"We cannot be mistaken," observed Leonard. "It is clear this house is the receptacle for Chowles's plunder. Besides, we should not have found the lantern burning if they had gone forth again. No, no; they must be hidden somewhere, and I will not quit the place till I find them." Their search, however, was fruitless. They mounted to the garrets, opened every door, and glanced into every corner. Still, no one was to be seen.

"I begin to think Nizza cannot be here," said the apprentice; "but I am resolved not to depart without questioning Chowles on the subject."

"You must find him first," rejoined Rainbird. "If he is anywhere, he must be in the cellar, for we have been into every room in this part of the house. For my own part, I think you had better abandon the search altogether. No good will come of it."

Leonard, however, was not to be dissuaded, and they went downstairs. A short flight of stone steps brought them to a spacious kitchen, but it was quite empty, and seemed to have been long disused. They then peeped into the scullery adjoining, and were about to retrace their steps, when Rainbird plucked Leonard's sleeve to call attention to a gleam of light issuing from a door which stood partly ajar, in a long narrow passage leading apparently to the cellars.

"They are there," he said, in a whisper.

"So I see," replied Leonard, in the same tone. And raising his finger to his lips in token of silence, he stole forward on the points of his feet and cautiously opened the door.

At the further end of the cellar—for such it was—knelt Chowles, examining with greedy eyes the contents of a large chest, which, from the hasty glance that Leonard caught of it, appeared to be filled with gold and silver plate. A link stuck against the wall threw a strong light over the scene, and showed that the coffin-maker was alone. As Leonard advanced, the sound of his footsteps caught Chowles's ear, and uttering a cry of surprise and alarm, he let fall the lid of the chest, and sprang to his feet.

"What do you want?" he cried, looking uneasily round, as if in search of some weapon. "Are you come to rob me?"

"No," replied Leonard; "neither are we come to reclaim the plunder you have taken from others. We are come in search of Nizza Macascree."

"Then you have come on a fool's errand," replied Chowles, regaining his courage, "for she is not here. I know nothing of her."

"That is false," replied Leonard. "You have just conducted Sir Paul Parravicin to her."

This assertion on the part of the apprentice, which he thought himself justified under the circumstances in making, produced a strong effect on Chowles. He appeared startled and confounded. "What right have you to play the spy upon me thus?" he faltered.

"The right that every honest man possesses to check the designs of the wicked," replied Leonard. "You admit she is here. Lead me to her hiding-place without more ado."

"If you know where it is," rejoined Chowles, who now perceived the trick that had been practised upon him, "you will not want me to conduct you to it. Neither Nizza nor Sir Paul Parravicin are here."

"That is false, prevaricating scoundrel," cried Leonard. "My companion and I saw you enter the house with your profligate employer. And as we gained admittance a few minutes after you, it is certain no one can have left it. Lead me to Nizza's retreat instantly, or I will cut your throat." And seizing Chowles by the collar, he held the point of his sword to his breast.

"Use no violence," cried Chowles, struggling to free himself, "and I will take you wherever you please. This way—this way." And he motioned as if he would take them upstairs.

"Do not think to mislead me, villain," cried Leonard, tightening his grasp. "We have searched every room in the upper part of the house, and though we have discovered the whole of your ill-gotten hoards, we have found nothing else. No one is there."

"Well, then," rejoined Chowles, "since the truth must out, Sir Paul is in the next house. But it is his own abode. I have nothing to do with it, nothing whatever. He is accountable for his own actions, and you will be accountable to him if you intrude upon his privacy. Release me, and I swear to conduct you to him. But you will take the consequences of your rashness upon yourself. I only go upon compulsion."

"I am ready to take any consequences," replied Leonard, resolutely.

"Come along, then," said Chowles, pointing down the passage.

"You mean us no mischief?" cried Leonard, suspiciously. "If you do, the attempt will cost you your life."

Chowles made no answer, but moved along the passage as quickly as Leonard, who kept fast hold of him and walked by his side, would permit. Presently they reached a door, which neither the apprentice nor Rainbird had observed before, and which admitted them into an extensive vault, with a short staircase at the further end, communicating with a passage that Leonard did not require to be informed was in another house.

Here Chowles paused. "I think it right to warn you you are running into a danger from which ere long you will be glad to draw back, young man," he said, to the apprentice. "As a friend, I advise you to proceed no further in the matter."

"Waste no more time in talking," cried Leonard, fiercely, and forcing him forward as he spoke, "where is Nizza? Lead me to her without an instant's delay."

"A wilful man must have his way," returned Chowles, hurrying up the main staircase. "It is not my fault if any harm befalls you."

They had just gained the landing when a door on the right was suddenly thrown open, and Sir Paul Parravicin stood before them. He looked surprised and startled at the sight of the apprentice, and angrily demanded his business. "I am come for Nizza Macascree," replied Leonard, "whom you and Chowles have detained against her will."

Parravicin glanced sternly and inquiringly at the coffin-maker.

"I have protested to him that she is not here, Sir Paul," said the latter, "but he will not believe me, and has compelled me, by threats of taking my life, to bring him and his companion to you."

"Then take them back again," rejoined Parravicin, turning haughtily upon his heel.

"That answer will not suffice, Sir Paul," cried Leonard—"I will not depart without her."

"How!" exclaimed the knight, drawing his sword. "Do you dare to intrude upon my presence? Begone! or I will punish your presumption." And he prepared to attack the apprentice.

"Advance a footstep," rejoined Leonard, who had never relinquished his grasp of Chowles, "and I pass my sword through this man's body. Speak, villain," he continued, in a tone so formidable that the coffin-maker shook with apprehension—"is she here or not?" Chowles gazed from him to the knight, whose deportment was equally menacing and appeared bewildered with terror.

"It is needless," said Leonard, "your looks answer for you. She is."

"Yes, yes, I confess she is," replied Chowles.

"You hear what he says, Sir Paul," remarked Leonard.

"His fears would make him assert anything," rejoined Parravicin, disdainfully. "If you do not depart instantly, I will drive you forth."

"Sir Paul Parravicin," rejoined Leonard, in an authoritative tone, "I command you in the king's name, to deliver up this girl."

Parravicin laughed scornfully. "The king has no authority here," he said.

"Pardon me, Sir Paul," rejoined Chowles, who began to be seriously alarmed at his own situation, and eagerly grasped at the opportunity that offered of extricating himself from it—"pardon me. If it is the king's pleasure she should be removed, it materially alters the case, and I can be no party to her detention."

"Both you and your employer will incur his majesty's severest displeasure, by detaining her after this notice," remarked Leonard.

"Before I listen to the young man's request, let him declare that it is his intention to deliver her up to the king," rejoined Parravicin, coldly.

"It is my intention to deliver her up to one who has the best right to take charge of her," returned Leonard.

"You mean her father," sneered Parravicin.

"Ay, but not the person you suppose to be her father," replied Leonard. "An important discovery has been made respecting her parentage."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Parravicin, with a look of surprise. "Who has the honour to be her father?"

"A gentleman named Thirlby," replied Leonard.

"What!" cried Parravicin, starting, and turning pale. "Did you say Thirlby?"

The apprentice reiterated his assertion. Parravicin uttered a deep groan, and pressed his hand forcibly against his brow for some moments, during which the apprentice watched him narrowly. He then controlled himself by a powerful effort, and returned his sword to its scabbard.

"Come into this room, young man," he said to the apprentice, "and let your companion remain outside with Chowles. Fear nothing. I intend you no injury."

"I do not distrust you," replied Leonard, "and if I did, should have no apprehension." And motioning Rainbird to remain where he was, he entered the room with the knight, who instantly closed the door.

Parravicin's first proceeding was to question him as to his reasons for supposing Nizza to be Thirlby's daughter, and clearly perceiving the deep interest his interrogator took in the matter, and the favourable change that, from some unknown cause, had been wrought in his sentiments, the apprentice did not think fit to hide anything from him. Parravicin's agitation increased as he listened to the recital; and at last, overcome by emotion, he sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. Recovering himself in a short time, he arose, and began to pace the chamber to and fro.

"What I have told you seems to have disturbed you, Sir Paul," remarked Leonard. "May I ask the cause of your agitation?"

"No, man, you may not," replied Parravicin, angrily. And then suddenly checking himself, he added, with forced calmness, "And so you parted with Mr. Thirlby on London Bridge, and you think he will return to Doctor Hodges's residence in Watling-street."

"I am sure of it," replied Leonard.

"I must see him without delay," rejoined Parravicin.

"I will take you to him," remarked Leonard; "but first I must see Nizza."

Parravicin walked to a table, on which stood a small silver bell, and ringing it, the summons was immediately answered by an old woman. He was about to deliver a message to her, when the disturbed expression of her countenance struck him, and he hastily inquired the cause of it.

"You must not see the young lady to-night, Sir Paul," said the old woman.

"Why not?" demanded the knight, hastily. "Why not?"

"Because—but you frighten me so that I dare not speak," was the answer.

"I will frighten you still more if you keep me in this state of suspense," rejoined Parravicin, furiously. "Is she ill?"

"I fear she has got the plague," returned the old woman. "Now you can see her if you think proper."

"I will see her," said Leonard. "I have no fear of infection."

The old woman looked hard at Parravicin, as if awaiting his orders. "Yes, yes, you can take him to her room," said the knight, who seemed completely overpowered by the intelligence, "if he chooses to go thither. But why do you suppose it is the plague?"

"One cannot well be deceived in a seizure of that kind," replied the old woman, shaking her head.

"I thought the disorder never attacked the same person twice," said Parravicin.

"I myself am an instance to the contrary," replied Leonard.

"And, as you have twice recovered, there may be a chance for Nizza," said Parravicin. "This old woman will take you to her. I will hasten to Doctor Hodges's residence, and if I should fail in meeting him, will not rest till I procure assistance elsewhere. Do not leave her till I return."

Leonard readily gave a promise to the desired effect, and accompanying him to the door, told Rainbird what had happened. The latter agreed to wait below to render any assistance that might be required, and went downstairs with Parravicin and Chowles. The two latter instantly quitted the house together, and hastened to Watling-street.

With a beating heart, Leonard then followed the old woman to Nizza's chamber. They had to pass through a small anteroom, the door of which was carefully locked. The suite of apartments occupied by the captive girl were exquisitely and luxuriously furnished, and formed a striking contrast to the rest of the house. The air was loaded with perfumes; choice pictures adorned the walls; and the tables were covered with books and china ornaments. The windows, however, were strictly barred, and every precaution appeared to be taken to prevent an attempt at escape. Leonard cast an anxious look round as he entered the anteroom, and its luxurious air filled him with anxiety. His conductress, however, did not allow him time for reflection, but led him into another room, still more richly furnished than the first, and lighted by a large coloured lamp, that shed a warm glow around it. An old dwarfed African, in a fantastic dress, and with a large scimetar stuck in his girdle, stepped forward on their approach, and shook his head significantly.

"He is dumb," said the old woman, "but his gestures are easy to be understood. He means that Nizza is worse."

Leonard heaved a deep sigh. Passing into a third room, they perceived the poor girl stretched on a couch placed in a recess at one side. She heard their footsteps, and without raising her head, or looking towards them, said, in a weak but determined voice—"Tell your master I will see him no more. The plague has again attacked me, and I am glad of it, for it will deliver me from him. It will be useless to offer me any remedies, for I will not take them."

"It is not Sir Paul Parravicin," replied the old woman. "I have brought a stranger, with whose name I am unacquainted, to see you."

"Then you have done very wrong," replied Nizza. "I will see no one."

"Not even me, Nizza?" asked Leonard, advancing. The poor girl started at the sound of his voice, and raising herself on one arm, looked wildly towards him. As soon as she was satisfied that her fancy did not deceive her, she uttered a cry of delight, and falling backwards on the couch, became insensible.

Leonard and the old woman instantly flew to the poor girl's assistance, and restoratives being applied, she speedily opened her eyes and fixed them tenderly and inquiringly on the apprentice. Before replying to her mute interrogatories, Leonard requested the old woman to leave them—an order very reluctantly obeyed—and as soon as they were left alone, proceeded to explain, as briefly as he could, the manner in which he had discovered her place of captivity. Nizza listened to his recital with the greatest interest, and though evidently suffering acute pain, uttered no complaint, but endeavoured to assume an appearance of composure and tranquillity.

"I must now tell you all that has befallen me since we last met," she said, as he concluded. "I will not dwell upon the persecution I endured from the king, whose passion increased in proportion to my resistance—I will not dwell upon the arts, the infamous arts, used to induce me to comply with his wishes—neither will I dwell upon the desperate measure I had determined to resort to, if driven to the last strait—nor would I mention the subject at all, except to assure you I escaped contamination where few escaped it."

"You need not give me any such assurance," remarked Leonard.

"While I was thus almost driven to despair," pursued Nizza, "a young female who attended me, and affected to deplore my situation, offered to help me to escape. I eagerly embraced the offer; and one night, having purloined, as she stated, the key of the chamber in which I was lodged, she conducted me by a back staircase into the palace-gardens. Thinking myself free, I warmly thanked my supposed deliverer, who hurried me towards a gate, at which she informed me a man was waiting to guide me to a cottage about a mile from the city, where I should be in perfect safety."

"I see the device," cried Leonard. "But, why—why did you trust her?"

"What could I do?" rejoined Nizza. "To stay was as bad as to fly, and might have been worse. At all events, I had no distrust. My companion opened the gate, and called to some person without. It was profoundly dark; but I could perceive a carriage, or some other vehicle, at a little distance. Alarmed at the sight, I whispered my fears to my companion, and would have retreated; but she laid hold of my hand, and detained me. The next moment I felt a rude grasp upon my arm. Before I could cry out, a hand was placed over my mouth so closely as almost to stifle me; and I was forced into the carriage by two persons, who seated themselves on either side of me, threatening to put me to death if I made the slightest noise. The carriage was then driven off at a furious pace. For some miles it pursued the high road, and then struck into a lane, where, in consequence of the deep and dangerous ruts, the driver was obliged to relax his speed. But in spite of all his caution, one of the wheels sunk into a hole, and in the efforts to extricate it, the carriage was overturned. No injury was sustained either by me or the others inside, and the door being forced open without much difficulty, we were let out. One of my captors kept near me, while the other lent his assistance to the coachman to set the carriage to rights. It proved, however, to be so much damaged, that it could not proceed; and, after considerable delay, my conductors ordered the coachman to remain with it till further assistance could be sent; and, taking the horses, one of them, notwithstanding my resistance, placed me beside him, and galloped off. Having ridden about five miles, we crossed an extensive common, and passed an avenue of trees, which brought us to the entrance of an old house. Our arrival seemed to be expected; for the instant we appeared, the gate was opened, and the old woman you have just seen, and who is called Mrs. Carteret, together with a dumb African, named Hassan, appeared at it. Some muttered discourse passed between my conductors and these persons, which ended in my being committed to the care of Mrs. Carteret who led me upstairs to a richly-furnished chamber, and urged me to take some refreshment before I retired to rest, which, however, I declined."

"Still, you saw nothing of Sir Paul Parravicin?" asked Leonard.

"On going downstairs next morning, he was the first person I beheld," replied Nizza. "Falling upon his knees, he implored my pardon for the artifice he had practised, and said he had been compelled to have recourse to it in order to save me from the king. He then began to plead his own suit; but finding his protestations of passion of no effect, he became yet more importunate; when, at this juncture, one of the men who had acted as my conductor on the previous night suddenly entered the room, and told him he must return to Oxford without an instant's delay, as the king's attendants were in search of him. Casting a look at me that made me tremble, he then departed; and though I remained more than two months in that house, I saw nothing more of him."

"Did you not attempt to escape during that time?" asked Leonard.

"I was so carefully watched by Mrs. Carteret and Hassan, that it would have been vain to attempt it," she replied. "About a week ago, the two men who had conducted me to my place of captivity, again made their appearance, and told me I must accompany them to London. I attempted no resistance, well aware it would be useless; and as the journey was made by by-roads, three days elapsed before we reached the capital. We arrived at night, and I almost forgot my own alarm in the terrible sights I beheld at every turn. It would have been useless to call out for assistance, for there was no one to afford it. I asked my conductors if they had brought me there to die, and they answered, sternly, 'It depended on myself.' At Ludgate we met Chowles, the coffin-maker, and he brought us to this house. Yesterday, Sir Paul Parravicin made his appearance, and told me he had brought me hither to be out of the king's way. He then renewed his odious solicitations. I resisted him as firmly as before; but he was more determined; and I might have been reduced to the last extremity but for your arrival, or for the terrible disorder that has seized me. But I have spoken enough of myself. Tell me what has become of Amabel?"

"She, too, has got the plague," replied Leonard, mournfully.

"Alas! alas!" cried Nizza, bursting into tears; "she is so dear to you, that I grieve for her far more than for myself."

"I have not seen her since I last beheld you," said Leonard, greatly touched by the poor girl's devotion. "She was carried off by the Earl of Rochester on the same night that you were taken from Kingston Lisle by the king."

"And she has been in his power ever since?" demanded Nizza, eagerly.

"Ever since," repeated Leonard.

"The same power that has watched over me, I trust has protected her," cried Nizza, fervently.

"I cannot doubt it," replied Leonard. "She would now not be alive were it otherwise. But I have now something of importance to disclose to you. You remember the stranger we met near the plague-pit in Finsbury Fields, and whose child I buried?"

"Perfectly," replied Nizza.

"What if I tell you he is your father?" said Leonard.

"What!" cried Nizza, in the utmost surprise. "Have I, then, been mistaken all these years in supposing the piper to be my father?"

"You have," replied Leonard. "I cannot explain more to you at present; but a few hours will reveal all. Thirlby is the name of your father. Have you ever heard it before?"

"Never," returned Nizza. "It is strange what you tell me. I have often reproached myself for not feeling a stronger affection for the piper, who always treated me with the kindness of a parent. But it now seems the true instinct was wanting. Tell me your reasons for supposing this person to be my father."

As Leonard was about to reply, the door was opened by Mrs. Carteret, who said that Sir Paul Parravicin had just returned with Doctor Hodges and another gentleman. The words were scarcely uttered, when Thirlby rushed into the room, and, flinging himself on his knees before the couch, cried, "At last I have found you—my child! my child!" The surprise which Nizza must have experienced at such an address was materially lessened by what Leonard had just told her; and, after earnestly regarding the stranger for some time, she exclaimed, in a gentle voice, "My father!"

Thirlby sprang to his feet, and would have folded her in his arms, if Doctor Hodges, who by this time had reached the couch, had not prevented him. "Touch her not, or you destroy yourself," he cried.

"I care not if I do," rejoined Thirlby. "The gratification would be cheaply purchased at the price of my life; and if I could preserve hers by the sacrifice, I would gladly make it."

"No more of this," cried Hodges, impatiently, "or you will defeat any attempt I may make to cure her. You had better not remain here. Your presence agitates her."

Gazing wistfully at his daughter, and scarcely able to tear himself away, Thirlby yielded at last to the doctor's advice, and quitted the room. He was followed by Leonard, who received a hint to the same effect. On reaching the adjoining room, they found Sir Paul Parravicin walking to and fro in an agitated manner. He immediately came up to Thirlby, and, in an anxious but deferential tone, inquired how he had found Nizza? The latter shook his head, and, sternly declining any further conversation, passed on with the apprentice to an outer room. He then flung himself into a chair, and appeared lost in deep and bitter reflection. Leonard was unwilling to disturb him; but at last his own anxieties compelled him to break silence.

"Can you tell me aught of Amabel?" he asked.

"Alas! no," replied Thirlby, rousing himself. "I have had no time to inquire about her, as you shall hear. After leaving you on the bridge, I went into Southwark, and hurrying through all the principal streets, inquired from every watchman I met whether he had seen any person answering to Doctor Hodges's description, but could hear nothing of him. At last I gave up the quest, and, retracing my steps, was proceeding along Cannon-street, when I descried a person a little in advance of me, whom I thought must be the doctor, and, calling out to him, found I was not mistaken. I had just reached him, when two other persons turned the corner of Nicholas-lane. On seeing us, one of them ran up to the doctor, exclaiming, 'By Heaven, the very person I want!' It was Sir Paul Parravicin; and he instantly explained his errand. Imagine the feelings with which I heard his account of the illness of my daughter. Imagine, also, the horror I must have experienced in recognising in her persecutor my—"

The sentence was not completed, for at that moment the door was opened by Sir Paul Parravicin, who, advancing towards Thirlby, begged, in the same deferential tone as before, to have a few words with him.

"I might well refuse you," replied Thirlby, sternly, "but it is necessary we should have some explanation of what has occurred."

"It is," rejoined Parravicin, "and, therefore, I have sought you." Thirlby arose, and accompanied the knight into the outer room, closing the door after him. More than a quarter of an hour—it seemed an age to Leonard—elapsed, and still no one came. Listening intently, he heard voices in the next room. They were loud and angry, as if in quarrel. Then all was quiet, and at last Thirlby reappeared, and took his seat beside him.

"Have you seen Doctor Hodges?" inquired the apprentice, eagerly.

"I have," replied Thirlby—"and he speaks favourably of my poor child. He has administered all needful remedies, but as it is necessary to watch their effect, he will remain with her some time longer."

"And, meanwhile, I shall know nothing of Amabel," cried Leonard, in a tone of bitter disappointment.

"Your anxiety is natural," returned Thirlby, "but you may rest satisfied, if Doctor Hodges has seen her, he has done all that human aid can effect. But as you must perforce wait his coming forth, I will endeavour to beguile the tedious interval by relating to you so much of my history as refers to Nizza Macascree."

After a brief pause, he commenced. "You must know, then, that in my youth I became desperately enamoured of a lady named Isabella Morley. She was most beautiful—but I need not enlarge upon her attractions, since you have beheld her very image in Nizza. When I first met her she was attached to another, but I soon rid myself of my rival. I quarrelled with him, and slew him in a duel. After a long and urgent suit, for the successful issue of which I was mainly indebted to my rank and wealth, which gave great influence with her parents, Isabella became mine. But I soon found out she did not love me. In consequence of this discovery, I became madly jealous, and embittered her life and my own by constant, and, now I know too well, groundless suspicions. She had borne me a son, and in the excess of my jealous fury, fancying the child was not my own, I threatened to put it to death. This violence led to the unhappy result I am about to relate. Another child was born, a daughter—need I say Nizza, or to give her her proper name, Isabella, for she was so christened after her mother—and one night—one luckless night,—maddened by some causeless doubt, I snatched the innocent babe from her mother's arms, and if I had not been prevented by the attendants, who rushed into the room on hearing their mistress's shrieks, should have destroyed her. After awhile, I became pacified, and on reviewing my conduct more calmly on the morrow, bitterly reproached myself, and hastened to express my penitence to my wife. 'You will never have an opportunity of repeating your violence,' she said; 'the object of your cruel and unfounded suspicions is gone.'—'Gone!' I exclaimed; 'whither?' And as I spoke I looked around the chamber. But the babe was nowhere to be seen. In answer to my inquiries, my wife admitted that she had caused her to be removed to a place of safety, but refused, even on my most urgent entreaties, accompanied by promises of amended conduct, to tell me where. I next interrogated the servants, but they professed entire ignorance of the matter. For three whole days I made ineffectual search for the child, and offered large rewards to any one who would bring her to me. But they failed to produce her; and repairing to my wife's chamber, I threatened her with the most terrible consequences if she persisted in her vindictive project. She defied me, and, transported with rage, I passed my sword through her body, exclaiming as I dealt the murderous blow, 'You have sent the brat to her father—to your lover, madam.' Horror and remorse seized me the moment I had committed the ruthless act, and I should have turned my sword against myself, if I had not been stayed by the cry of my poor victim, who implored me to hold my hand. 'Do not add crime to crime,' she cried; 'you have done me grievous wrong. I have not, indeed, loved you, because my affections were not under my control, but I have been ever true to you, and this I declare with my latest breath. I freely forgive you, and pray God to turn your heart.' And with these words she expired. I was roused from the stupefaction into which I was thrown by the appearance of the servants. Heaping execrations upon me, they strove to seize me; but I broke through them, and gained a garden at the back of my mansion, which was situated on the bank of the Thames, not far from Chelsea. This garden ran down to the river side, and was defended by a low wall, which I leapt, and plunged into the stream. A boat was instantly sent in pursuit of me, and a number of persons ran along the banks, all eager for my capture. But being an excellent swimmer, I tried to elude them, and as I never appeared again, it was supposed I was drowned."

"And Nizza, or as I ought now to call her, Isabella, was confided, I suppose, to the piper?" inquired Leonard.

"She was confided to his helpmate," replied Thirlby, "who had been nurse to my wife. Mike Macascree was one of my father's servants, and was in his younger days a merry, worthless fellow. The heavy calamity under which he now labours had not then befallen him. On taking charge of my daughter, his wife received certain papers substantiating the child's origin, together with a miniature, and a small golden amulet. The papers and miniature were delivered by her on her death-bed to the piper, who showed them to me to-night."

"And the amulet I myself have seen," remarked Leonard.

"To resume my own history," said Thirlby—"after the dreadful catastrophe I have related, I remained concealed in London for some months, and was glad to find the report of my death generally believed. I then passed over into Holland, where I resided for several years, in the course of which time I married the widow of a rich merchant, who died soon after our union, leaving me one child." And he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion. After awhile he proceeded: