“Then nothing is to be done to-night?” said Pillichody, secretly congratulating himself on his escape.  “By my sword!  I feel equal to the most desperate attempt.”

“Your courage and dexterity must be reserved for some more favourable occasion,” replied Rochester.

“If not to carry off the girl, I must again inquire why your lordship has come hither?” demanded Etherege.

“To be frank with you, my sole motive was to gaze at the house that contains her,” replied Rochester, in a voice that bespoke his sincerity.  “I have before told you that she has a strong hold upon my heart.  I have not seen her for some weeks, and during that time have endeavoured to obliterate her image by making love to a dozen others.  But it will not do.  She still continues absolute mistress of my affections.  I sometimes think, if I can obtain her in no other way, I shall be rash enough to marry her.”

“Pshaw! this must never be,” said Etherege.

“Were I to lose her altogether, I should be inconsolable,” cried Rochester.

“As inconsolable as I am for the rich widow of Watling-street, who died a fortnight ago of the plague, and left her wealth to her footman,” replied Pillichody, drawing forth his handkerchief and applying it to his eyes—­“oh! oh!”

“Silence, fool!” cried Rochester:  “I am in no mood for buffoonery.  If you shed tears for any one, it should be for your master.”

“Truly, I am grieved for him,” replied Pillichody; “but I object to the term ‘master.’  Sir Paul Parravicin, as he chooses to be called, is my patron, not my master.  He permits me a very close familiarity, not to say friendship.”

“Well, then, your patron,” rejoined Rochester, scornfully.  “How is he going on to-night?”

“I feared to tell your lordship,” replied Pillichody, “lest it should spoil your mirth; but he broke out of his chamber a few hours ago, and has not been discovered since.  Most likely, he will be found in the plague-pit or the Thames in the morning, for he was in such an infuriated state, that it is the opinion of his attendants he would certainly destroy himself.  You know he was attacked two days after Nizza Macascree was seized by the pestilence, and his brain has been running upon the poor girl ever since.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Rochester, “it is a sad end.  I am wearied of this infected city, and shall be heartily glad to quit it.  A few months in the country with Amabel will be enchanting.”

“Apropos of melancholy subjects,” said Etherege, “your masque of the Dance of Death has caused great consternation at court.  Mistress Stewart declares she cannot get that strange fellow who performed such fantastic tricks in the skeleton-dance out of her head.”

“You mean Chowles,” replied the earl.  “He is a singular being, certainly—­once a coffin-maker, and now, I believe, a burier of the dead.  He takes up his abode in a crypt of Saint Faith’s and leads an incomprehensible life.  As we return we shall pass the cathedral, and can see whether he is astir.”