The greatest fury of the conflagration was displayed at the Poultry, where five distinct fires met, and united their forces—­one which came roaring down Cornhill from the Royal Exchange—­a second down Threadneedle-street—­a third up Walbrook—­a fourth along Bucklersbury—­and a fifth that marched against the wind up Cheapside, all these uniting, as at a focus, a whirl of flame, an intensity of heat, and a thundering roar were produced, such as were nowhere else experienced.

To return to the party on the central tower of the cathedral:—­Stunned and half stifled by the roar and smoke, Leonard and his companions descended from their lofty post, and returned to the body of the fane.  They were about to issue forth, when Leonard, glancing down the northern aisle, perceived the Earl of Rochester and Lord Argentine standing together at the lower end of it.  Their gestures showed that it was not an amicable meeting, and mindful of what had passed at Whitehall, Leonard resolved to abide the result.  Presently, he saw Lord Argentine turn sharply round, and strike his companion in the face with his glove.  The clash of swords instantly succeeded, and Leonard and Wingfield started forward to separate the combatants.  Blaize, followed, but more cautiously, contenting himself with screaming at the top of his voice, “Murder! murder! sacrilege! a duel! a duel!”

Wingfield was the first to arrive at the scene of strife, but just as he reached the combatants, who were too much blinded by passion to notice his approach, Lord Argentine struck his adversary’s weapon from his grasp, and would have followed up the advantage if the farmer had not withheld his arm.  Enraged at the interference, Argentine turned his fury against the newcomer, and strove to use his sword against him—­but in the terrible struggle that ensued, and at the close of which they fell together, the weapon, as if directed by the hand of an avenging fate, passed through his own breast, inflicting a mortal wound.

“Susan Wingfield is avenged!” said the farmer, as he arose, drenched in the blood of his opponent.

“Susan Wingfield!” exclaimed the wounded man—­“what was she to you?”

“Much,” replied the farmer.  “She was my daughter.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Argentine, with an expression of unutterable anguish.  “Let me have your forgiveness,” he groaned.

“You have it,” replied Wingfield, kneeling beside him, “and may God pardon us both—­you for the wrong you did my daughter, me for being accidentally the cause of your death.  But I trust you are not mortally hurt?”

“I have not many minutes to live,” replied Argentine.  “But is not that Leonard Holt?”

“It is,” said Rochester, stepping forward.

“I can then do one rightful act before I die,” he said, raising himself on one hand, and holding the other forcibly to his side, so as to stanch in some degree the effusion of blood.  “Leonard Holt,” he continued, “my sister Isabella loves you—­deeply, devotedly.  I have tried to conquer the passion, but in vain.  You have my consent to wed her.”