“You have mentioned another wretch, who was constantly with Sir Paul,” cried Wingfield.  “Perdition seize them!”

“Ay, perdition seize them!” echoed Blaize, striking the table in his turn—­“especially Major Pillichody.”

“Did you ever suspect Sir Paul to be of higher rank than he pretends?” asked Leonard.

“No,” rejoined Wingfield; “what motive have you for the question?”

Leonard then told him of the inquiries instituted by Doctor Hodges relative to Nizza’s retreat, and how they had been baffled.  “It is strange,” he continued, “that Nizza herself never heard the real name of her persecutor; neither can she tell where the house to which she was conveyed, when in a fainting condition, and from which she was removed when attacked with the plague, is situated.”

“It is strange indeed,” observed the farmer, musingly.

Soon after this, Nizza Macascree made her appearance, and informed them that Amabel had fallen into a tranquil slumber, which, in all probability, would completely renovate her.

“I hope it will,” said Wingfield.  “But I shall not part with her to-day.”

He then entered into conversation with Nizza, and after a little time, proposed to her and Leonard to walk across the fields with him to Willesden, to visit his daughter’s grave.

“My wife will take charge of Amabel,” he said; “you may safely trust her in her hands.”

Leonard could raise no objection, except the possibility that the Earl of Rochester and his companions might discover their retreat, and carry off Amabel in his absence; but, after a little reflection, considering this altogether unlikely, he assented, and they set out.  A pleasant walk across the fields brought them to the pretty little village of Willesden and its old and beautiful church.  They proceeded to the grave of poor Sarah Wingfield, which lay at the east of the church, beneath one of the tall elms, and Nizza, as she stood by the rounded sod covering the remains of the unfortunate girl, could not restrain her tears.

“This might have been my own fate,” she said.  “What an escape I have had!”

“I did not bring you here to read you a lesson,” said Wingfield, in a tone of deep emotion, “but because you, who know the temptation to which the poor creature who lies there was exposed, will pity her.  Not alone did remorse for her conduct prey upon her spirits—­not alone did she suffer from self-reproach,—­but the scoffs and jeers of her sex, who never forgive an erring sister, broke her heart.  She is now, however, beyond the reach of human malice, and, I trust, at peace.”

As he said this, he walked away to hide his emotion, and presently afterwards rejoining them, they quitted the churchyard together.

As they recrossed the fields, Wingfield observed two men digging a hole in the ground, and, guessing their object, paused for a few minutes to watch them.  Having thrown out the earth to the depth of a couple of feet, one of them took a long hooked pole, and attaching it to the body of a victim to the pestilence, who had wandered into the fields and died there, dragged it towards the pit.  As soon as the corpse was pushed into its narrow receptacle, the clay was shovelled over it, and trodden down.