"This grand bonfire of our most worshipful Lord Mayor will be a sight

worth seeing," remarked the earl. "When all these piles are lighted, the

city will be one sea of fire."

"A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold in

another world," said the page, with a French shrug. "I have heard

Lilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire, like a second

Sodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night."

"Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place to

view the conflagration."

"The river will do almost as well, my lord."

"We will have a chance of knowing that presently," said the earl, as he

and his page descended to the river, where the little gilded barge lay

moored, and the boatman waiting.

As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched thoughtfully

after them. The face and figure were that of the lady, but the voice

was different; both were clear and musical enough, but she spoke English

with the purest accent, while his was the voice of a foreigner. It most

have been one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimes

see among perfect strangers, but the resemblance in this ease was

something wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself sad his

own fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and his

plague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he could possibly

be about just then, or what he had discovered in the old ruin. Suddenly

he was aroused; a moment before, the silence had been almost oppressive

but now on the wings of the night, there came a shout. A tumult of

voices and footsteps were approaching.

"Stop her! Stop her!" was cried by many voices; and the next instant a

fleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and plunged head foremost

into she river.

A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair of

deepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms. Only for

an instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his very heart stood

still. "Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the plague!" shouted the

crowd, preying panting on; but they came too late; the white vision had

gone down into the black, sluggish river, and disappeared.

"Who is it? What is it? Where is it?" cried two or three watchmen,

brandishing their halberds, and rushing up; and the crowd-a small mob of

a dozen or so-answered all at once: "She is delirious with the plague;

she was running through the streets; we gave chase, but she out-stepped

us, and is now at the bottom of the Thames."

Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to the

waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and many

eyes within them were turned in the direction whence she had gone down.

Soon she reappeared on the dark surface--something whiter than snow,

whiter than death; shining like silver, shone the glittering dress and

marble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston

stood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing

vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was

forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over the

edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted her

in. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, the

batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited face

toward the Earl of Rochester.




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