dark and sultry, and Leonard could not help thinking that the enthusiast’s prediction would be verified, and that rain would fall.  But these gloomy anticipations vanished as the hour of midnight was tolled forth by the neighbouring clocks of Saint Michael’s and Saint Alban’s.  Scarcely had the strokes died away, when Leonard seized a light and set fire to the pile.  Ten thousand other piles were kindled at the same moment, and in an instant the pitchy darkness was converted into light as bright as that of noonday.

Anxious to behold this prodigious illumination at its best, Leonard Holt committed the replenishing of the pile and the custody of the house to Dallison, and hastened to Saint Paul’s.  A great fire was burning at each angle of the cathedral, but without pausing to notice the effect of the flames upon the walls of the building, he passed through the door to which he had been directed, and hastening to the spiral staircase beyond the choir, ascended it with swift steps.  He did not pause till he reached the summit of the tower, and there, indeed, a wondrous spectacle awaited him.  The whole city seemed on fire, and girded with a flaming belt—­for piles were lighted at certain distances along the whole line of walls.  The groups of dark figures collected round the fires added to their picturesque effect; and the course of every street could be traced by the reflection of the flames on the walls and gables of the houses.  London Bridge was discernible from the fires burning upon it—­and even upon the river braziers were lighted on all the larger craft, which cast a ruddy glow upon the stream.

After gazing at this extraordinary sight for some time, Leonard began to descend.  As yet he had seen nothing of Solomon Eagle, and searching for him in vain in the belfry, he quitted the cathedral.  From a knot of persons gathered round one of the fires he learnt that the enthusiast was addressing the crowd at the west side of the building, and proceeding thither he perceived him standing on the edge of the balustrade of the south-western tower, surmounting the little church of Saint Gregory.  His brazier was placed on one of the buttresses, and threw its light on the mighty central tower of the fabric, and on a large clock-face immediately beneath.  Solomon Eagle was evidently denouncing the city, but his words were lost in the distance.  As he proceeded, a loud clap of thunder pealed overhead.

“It comes—­it comes!” cried the enthusiast, in a voice that could be distinctly heard in the death-like stillness that followed the thunder.  “The wrath of Heaven is at hand.”

As he spoke, a bright flash cut the air, and a bolt struck down, one of the pinnacles of the great tower.  Flash after flash followed in quick succession, and the enthusiast, who seemed wrapped in flame, extended his arms towards Heaven, as if beseeching a further display of its vengeance.  Suddenly the lightning ceased to flash and the thunder to roll.  A few heavy drops of rain fell.  These were succeeded by a deluging shower of such violence, that in less than a quarter of an hour every fire within the city was extinguished, and all was darkness and despair.