On awaking, Amabel complained of an uneasy sensation on her neck, and the attendant examining the spot, found, to her great alarm, a small red pustule.  Without making a single observation, she left the room, and despatched a messenger after the Earl of Rochester to acquaint him that the countess was attacked by the plague.  Such was the terror inspired by this dread disorder, that the moment it was known that Amabel was attacked by it, the whole household, except an old woman, fled.  This old woman, whose name was Batley, and who acted as the earl’s housekeeper, took upon herself the office of nurse.  Before evening, the poor sufferer, who had endured great agony during the whole of the day, became so much worse, that Mrs. Batley ran out in search of assistance.  She met with a watchman, who told her that a famous apothecary, from Clerkenwell, named Sibbald, who was celebrated for the cures he had effected, had just entered a neighbouring house, and offered to await his coming forth, and send him to her.  Thanking him, Mrs. Batley returned to the house, and presently afterwards, Sibbald made his appearance.  His looks and person had become even more repulsive than formerly.  He desired to be led to the patient, and on seeing her, shook his head.  He examined the pustule, which had greatly increased in size, and turning away, muttered, “I can do nothing for her.”

“At least make the attempt,” implored Mrs. Batley.  “She is the Countess of Rochester.  You shall be well rewarded—­and if you cure her, the earl will make your fortune.”

“If his lordship would change stations with me, I could not cure her,” replied Sibbald.  “Let me look at her again,” he added, examining the pustule.  “There is a strange appearance about this tumour.  Has Judith Malmayns attended her?”

“She was here yesterday,” replied Mrs. Batley.

“I thought so,” he muttered.  “I repeat it is all over with her.”  And he turned to depart.

“Do not leave her thus, in pity do not!” cried the old woman, detaining him.  “Make some effort to save her.  My lord loves her to distraction, and will abundantly reward you.”

“All I can do is to give her something to allay the pain,” returned Sibbald.  And drawing a small phial from his doublet, he poured its contents into a glass, and administered it to the patient.

“That will throw her into a slumber,” he said, “and when she wakes, she will be without pain.  But her end will be not far off.”

Mrs. Batley took a purse from a drawer in one of the cabinets, and gave it to the apothecary, who bowed and retired.  As he had foretold, Amabel fell into a heavy lethargy, which continued during the whole of the night.  Mrs. Batley, who had never left her, noticed that an extraordinary and fearful change had taken place in her countenance, and she could not doubt that the apothecary’s prediction would be realized.  The tumour had increased in size, and was surrounded by a dusky brown circle, which she knew to be a bad sign.  The sufferer’s eyes, when she opened them, and gazed around, had a dim and glazed look.  But she was perfectly calm and composed, and, as had been prognosticated, free from pain.  She had, also, fully regained her faculties, and seemed quite aware of her dangerous situation.