CHAPTER III.

"You look pale and gaze,

And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,
To see the strange impatience of the heavens:
But if you would consider the true cause

Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,
Why all these things change, from their ordinance,
Their nature, and pre-formed faculties

To monstrous quality, why, you shall find

That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits
To make them instruments of fear, and warning
Unto some monstrous state."

JULIUS CESAR.

THEY had at last entered London; it was a genial May day, warm and balmy, and the sun was beginning to descend the western sky. As they approached the city, numberless little companies, carefully avoiding contact with each other, met them on the road, leaving the vicinity of the pestilence; on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, with heavy wagons loaded with household stores and furniture, citizens, nobles, clergymen, and laborers, were alike flying for their lives.

But in the quaint outskirts of the town there was still little difference perceptible. Men went about plying their ordinary business; shops were open; the stream of traffic had not yet received its final check. Only various features

of change, singular and ominous, presented themselves here and there. Apothecaries' booths abounded on every side, full of all manner of nostrums—remedies, and preventives for the fatal disease, before whose acknowledged presence London trembled. Almost as plentiful at streetcorners and ends of alleys, were the brazen symbols of the astrologer, the mysterious signs of fortune-tellers, and other spiritual quacks, vending their perilous stuff for the relief of that craving, coward appetite of fear, at once foolhardy and timorous, which seeks to investigate the hidden fate of its own selfish future. Sometimes the twin empiricisms united in one person, were signified in signboard, or notice, at some much-frequented door. The singular excitement of the time was evident every where.

Passengers warily walking in the middle of the street— sudden shrinking and confusion here and there, when some invalid, with bandaged throat and pale face, was descried limping among the common stream-struck Edith with an indefinite pang as they rode slowly onward. They had parted with their fellow-traveler a short time before, having themselves made a considerable circuit, in order to visit the family of an ejected minister in Surrey. Sir Philip had gone on without delay to his mother's house, in Westminster, and Caleb Field and his daughter, with as much speed as their wearied horse would permit them, were pursuing their way to the residence of an old parishioner, on the Hampstead Road, who had offered to receive them.

The first church they passed was open; from its doors poured a stream of people, newly dismissed from one of the many solemn services of that fear-stricken time. The

preacher, a dark, grave man, wearing over his black dress the Geneva band, was last of all. He was passing on, without lifting his eyes, eagerly conversing with a youth who walked beside him.

"Master Vincent," said Field, as he passed by, "does the work prosper with you in this evil time?"

"Ah! is it thou, good brother Field?" cried the preacher, greeting him cordially; "thou art welcome to a troublous place. Doth the work prosper, say you? Alas! brother, where is it that we can do other than echo that lamentation of the prophet: Who hath believed my report?" "

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"Nay, but let us hope for better things," said the stouter-hearted Puritan; "surely we may look that many brands shall be plucked from this burning. The people are earnest, as I hear, in seeking the Word and prayer, and I wot well these have been blessed symptoms, brother Vincent, since it was said of Saul, the persecutor in old times, Behold he prayeth.""

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Fear-fear, only fear," answered Vincent, despondingly, with a nervous twitching of his mouth; "fear—not of the Lord, brother, but of the Plague."

"And who shall say when the twain may join?" said Field. "Ah! brother, think'st thou it is the death they fear, and not the after judgment, and yonder wondrous life beyond? An it were not for these, trust me, the material grave would lose its terrors."

"And thou hast ventured thy child in this doomed city?" said Vincent, hurriedly. "I will not bid thee welcome, gentle Mistress Edith, for this is no place for thee. Know'st thou the very air is heavy with the pestilence?

C

I marvel, Master Field, that thou broughtest thy daughter into this peril."

swer.

"It is her own wayward will, not mine," was the an"Now there is no way of amending it, we must leave the issue with our Master in heaven. What do men say of the pestilence? Does it diminish or increase?" "Diminish! think'st thou God's judgment on iniquity passeth away so lightly? Nay, it increases hour by hour. It begins to advance eastward, as they tell me. Citizens are flying from the wealthiest houses in the city; the magistrates are concerting severe means of prevention, binding the flame with flaxen band. Men talk fearfully of some plan for shutting up the infected houses; yet who can tell? What are such precautions as these against the fierce flame of the Almighty's anger?"

"Yet it is right to use all means," said Field, mildly "and Edith and I are scarce taking the best for our own comfort after our journey, and we keep you from your companion, Master Vincent."

"A singular youth," said the preacher, hurriedly, the twitching of his upper lip giving him, while he spoke, an unusual expression of melancholy earnestness, as he glanced at the young man, who stood respectfully out of hearing behind; "the enemy trieth him with strong delusions, persuading him that he hath committed the sin unto death. I have made him my special charge. He is like that young ruler whom the Lord loved; I hope well of the lad. I ask thee not to my lodging, brother Field, for the pestilence is near me. Good even, and peace and our Father's presence be with you. I will see you again ere long."

They passed on. Along the street, thrusting the very few passengers on the footpath aside in his precipitous career, a man thinly clad, with horror in his pale face and wild eyes, came dashing forward. They heard his cry indistinctly before he approached.

"What is it, father, what is it?" whispered Edith, fearfully. She thought him some unhappy lunatic escaped from confinement.

But the passers-by showed no signs of terror; they looked at him with compassionate eyes; they uttered ejaculations of prayer, strange to hear in that public place and time. The unhappy wanderer rushed on, uttering his sharp, monotonous cry: "Oh! the great and terrible God!" and men looked on in solemn quietness, not marveling. The healthful blood ran cold in the young veins of Edith Field. What cries were these for the streets of a mighty city!

They proceeded on-so many deserted houses frowning dark with their closed doors and windows upon the life around-so many signs of panic and terror, from wild apprehensions of God's wondrous vengeance, like that of the maniac who had passed them, to the helpless, tremulous anxiety of those serving maids and laboring men who crowded about the apothecary's door-combined to throw a cold blight of despondency upon the strangers. Up in the clear sky before them, Edith's eye had been caught by the glorious golden hue of a singular cloud. The heavens were flooded with the light of the setting sun; in beautiful relief against the blue sky, the cloud turned forth its mellow roundness to the gentle summer breeze, gliding onward stately and slow, as you may see a full sail some