The deepest gloom and despondency prevailed that night throughout London.  The sudden storm was regarded as a manifestation of the displeasure of Heaven, and as an intimation that the arrows of its wrath were not to be turned aside by any human efforts.  So impressed were all with this feeling, that when, in less than half an hour, the rain entirely ceased, the clouds cleared off, and the stars again poured down their lustre, no one attempted to relight the quenched embers, fearing to provoke the Divine vengeance.  Nor was a monitor wanting to enforce the awful lesson.  Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, ran through the streets, calling on the inhabitants to take to heart what had happened, to repent, and prepare for their doom.

“The Lord will not spare you,” he cried, as he stationed himself in the open space before St. Stephen’s, Walbrook.  “He will visit your sins upon you.  Pray, therefore, that ye may not be destroyed, both body and soul.  Little time is allowed you for repentance.  Many that hear me shall not live till tomorrow; few shall survive the year!”

“Thou, thyself, shalt not survive the night, false prophet,” cried a voice from a neighbouring window.  And immediately afterwards the barrel of a gun was thrust forth and a shot fired at the enthusiast.  But though Solomon Eagle never altered his position, he was wholly uninjured—­the ball striking a bystander, who fell to the ground mortally wounded.

“You have shot your own son, Mr. Westwood,” cried one of the spectators, rushing up to the fallen man.  “Who will henceforth doubt that Solomon Eagle is under the care of a special providence?”

“Not I,” replied another spectator.  “I shall never disregard his words in future.”

Setting down his brazier, the enthusiast bent over the dead man—­for dead he was—­and noted the placid smile upon his features.  By this time the unfortunate father had joined the group, and, on seeing the body of his son, wrung his hands in a pitiable manner, and gave utterance to the wildest expression of despair.  No one attempted to seize him, till at length Solomon Eagle, rising from his kneeling posture, laid his hand upon his arm, and regarding him sternly, said, “What wrong have I done you, that you should seek to slay me?”

“What wrong?” rejoined Westwood—­“such wrong as can never be repaired.  Your fearful prophecies and denunciations so terrified my daughter, that she died distracted.  My brokenhearted wife was not long in following her; and now you have made me the murderer of my son.  Complete the tragedy, and take my life.”

“I have no desire to do so,” replied Solomon Eagle, in a tone of commiseration.  “My wish is to save your soul, and the souls of all who listen to me.  I wonder not that your anger was at first stirred against me; but if your heart had been properly directed, indignation would have soon given way to better feelings.  My mission is not to terrify, but to warn.  Why will ye thus continue