with the deadly exhalations of the pestilence.  Nor did the workings of his imagination stop here.  He fancied even at this distance—­nearly seven miles—­that he could discern Solomon Eagle on the summit of Saint Paul’s.  At first the figure looked like a small black speck; but it gradually dilated, until it became twice the size of the cathedral, upon the central tower of which its feet rested, while its arms were spread abroad over the city.  In its right hand the gigantic figure held a blazing torch, and in the left a phial, from the mouth of which a stream of dark liquid descended.  So vividly did this phantasm present itself to Leonard, that, almost convinced of its reality, he placed his hands before his eyes for a few moments, and, on withdrawing them, was glad to find that the delusion was occasioned by a black cloud over the cathedral, which his distempered fancy had converted into the colossal figure of the enthusiast.

Blaize, who had taken the opportunity of his companion’s abstraction to sip a little more plague-water, now approached, and told him that Wingfield was descending the hill to meet them.  Rousing himself, Leonard ran towards the farmer, who appeared delighted to see them back again, and conducted them to his dwelling.  Owing to the tender and truly maternal attention of Dame Wingfield, Amabel was so much better that she was able to join the party at supper, though she took no share in the meal.  Wingfield listened to the soft tones of her voice as she conversed with his wife, and at last, unable to control his emotion, laid down his knife and fork, and quitted the table.

“What is the matter with your husband?” inquired Amabel of her hostess.  “I hope he is not unwell.”

“Oh! no,” replied the good dame; “your voice reminds him of our daughter, whose history I have related to you—­that is all.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Amabel, with a sympathizing look, “I will be silent, if it pains him to hear me speak.”

“On no account,” rejoined Dame Wingfield.  “The tears he has shed will relieve him.  He could not weep when poor Sarah died, and I feared his heart would break.  Talk to him as you have talked to me, and you will do him a world of good.”

Shortly afterwards, the farmer returned to the table, and the meal proceeded to its close without further interruption.  As soon as the board was cleared, Wingfield took a chair by Amabel, who, in compliance with his wife’s request, spoke to him about his daughter, and in terms calculated to afford him consolation.  Leonard was enraptured by her discourse, and put so little constraint upon his admiration, that Nizza Macascree could not repress a pang of jealousy.  As to Blaize, who had eaten as much as he could cram, and emptied a large jug of the farmer’s stout ale, he took his chair to a corner, and speedily fell asleep; his hoarse but tranquil breathing proving that the alarms he had undergone during the day did not haunt his slumbers.  Before separating for the night, Amabel entreated that prayers might be said, and her request being readily granted, she was about to retire with Nizza, when Wingfield detained them.