“I have just left the cathedral, and was told he had proceeded to some house near Cornhill,” rejoined the enthusiast.

“If you have been there, you can perhaps tell me how my master’s porter, Blaize Shotterel, is getting on,” said Leonard.

“I can,” replied the enthusiast.  “I heard one of the chirurgeons say that Doctor Hodges had pronounced him in a fair way of recovery.  But I must either find the doctor or go elsewhere.  Farewell!”

“I will go with you in search of him,” said Leonard.

“No, no; you must not—­shall not,” cried Solomon Eagle.

“Wherefore not?” asked the apprentice.

“Do not question me, but leave me,” rejoined the enthusiast.

“Do you know aught of Amabel—­of her retreat?” persisted Leonard, who had a strange misgiving that the enthusiast’s errand in some way referred to her.

“I do,” replied Solomon Eagle, gloomily; “but I again advise you not to press me further.”

“Answer me one question at least,” cried Leonard.  “Is she with the Earl of Rochester?”

“She is,” replied Solomon Eagle; “but I shall allay your fears in that respect when I tell you she is sick of the plague.”

Leonard heard nothing more, for, uttering a wild shriek, he fell to the ground insensible.  He was aroused to consciousness by a sudden sense of strangulation, and opening his eyes, beheld two dark figures bending over him, one of whom was kneeling on his chest.  A glance showed him that this person was Chowles; and instantly comprehending what was the matter, and aware that the coffin-maker was stripping him previously to throwing him into the dead-cart, which was standing hard by, he cried aloud, and struggled desperately to set himself free.  Little opposition was offered; for, on hearing the cry, Chowles quitted his hold, and retreating to a short distance, exclaimed, with a look of surprise, “Why, the fellow is not dead, after all!”

“I am neither dead, nor likely to die, as you shall find to your cost, rascal, if you do not restore me the clothes you have robbed me of,” cried Leonard, furiously.  And chancing to perceive a fork, dropped by Chowles in his hasty retreat, he snatched it up, and, brandishing it over his head, advanced towards him.  Thus threatened, Chowles tossed him a rich suit of livery.

“These are not mine,” said the apprentice, gazing at the habiliments.

“They are better than your own,” replied Chowles, “and therefore you ought to be glad of the exchange.  But give me them back again.  I have no intention of making you a present.”

“This is the livery of the Earl of Rochester,” cried Leonard.

“To be sure it is,” replied Chowles, with a ghastly smile.  “One of his servants is just dead.”

“Where is the profligate noble?” cried Leonard, eagerly.

“There is the person who owned these clothes,” replied Chowles, pointing to the dead-cart.  “You had better ask him.”