There Sir Norman stood in his trance, as motionless as if some genii out

of the "Arabian Nights" had suddenly turned him into stone (a trick they

were much addicted to), and destined him to remain there an ornamental

fixture for ever. Ormiston looked at him distractedly, uncertain whether

to try moral suasion or to take him by the collar and drag him headlong

down the stairs, when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came

to his relief. A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly

rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: "Bring out your dead! Bring out

your dead!"

Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already almost

full on it way to the plague-pit. The driver stopped at his call, and

instantly followed him up stairs, and into the room. Glancing at the

body with the utmost sang-froid, he touched the dress, and indifferently

remarked: "A bride, I should say; and an uncommonly handsome one too. We'll just

take her along as she is, and strip these nice things off the body when

we get it to the plague-pit."

So saying, he wrapped her in the sheet, and directing Ormiston to take

hold of the two lower ends, took the upper corners himself, with the

air of a man quite used to that sort of thing. Ormiston recoiled from

touching it; and Sir Norman seeing what they were about to do, and

knowing there was no help for it, made up his mind, like a sensible

young man as he was, to conceal his feelings, and caught hold of the

sheet himself. In this fashion the dead bride was carried down stairs,

and laid upon a shutter on the top of a pile of bodies in the dead-cart.

It was now almost dark, and as the cart started, the great clock of St.

Paul's struck eight. St. Michael's, St Alban's, and the others took up

the sound; and the two young men paused to listen. For many weeks the

sky had been clear, brilliant, and blue; but on this night dark clouds

were scudding in wild unrest across it, and the air was oppressingly

close and sultry.

"Where are you going now?" said Ormiston. "Are you for Whitehall's to

night?"

"No!" said Sir Norman, rather dejectedly, turning to follow the

pest-cart. "I am for the plague-pit in Finsbury fields!"

"Nonsense, man!" exclaimed Ormiston, energetically, "what will take you

there? You surely are not mad enough to follow the body of that dead

girl?"

"I shall follow it! You can come or not, just as you please."

"Oh! if you are determined, I will go with you, of course; but it is the

craziest freak I ever heard of. After this, you need never laugh at me."

"I never will," said Sir Norman, moodily; "for if you love a face you

have never seen, I love one I have only looked on when dead. Does it

not seem sacrilege to throw any one so like an angel into that horrible

plague-pit?"




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