Stretched upon the hearth before a blazing sea-coal fire, which seemed large enough to roast him, with his head resting upon the lap of Patience, the pretty kitchen-maid, and his left hand upon his heart, the porter loudly complained of a fixed and burning pain in that region; while his mother, who was kneeling beside him, having just poured a basin of scalding posset-drink down his throat, entreated him to let her examine his side to see whether he had any pestilential mark upon it, but he vehemently resisted her efforts.

“Do you feel any swelling, myn lief zoon?” asked old Josyna, trying to remove his hand.

“Swelling!” ejaculated Blaize,—­“there’s a tumour as big as an egg.”

“Is id possible?” exclaimed Josyna, in great alarm.  “Do let me look ad id.”

“No, no, leave me alone,” rejoined Blaize.  “Don’t disturb me further.  You will catch the distemper if you touch the sore.”

“Dat wond hinder me from drying to zaave you,” replied his mother, affectionately.  “I must see vad is de madder vid you, or I cannod cure you.”

“I am past your doctoring, mother,” groaned Blaize.  “Leave me alone, I say.  You hurt me shockingly!”

“Poor child!” cried Josyna, soothingly, “I’ll be as dender as possible.  I’ll nod give you de leasd pain—­nod de leasd bid.”

“But I tell you, you do give me a great deal,” rejoined Blaize.  “I can’t bear it.  Your fingers are like iron nails.  Keep them away.”

“Bless us! did I ever hear de like of dad!” exclaimed Josyna.  “Iron nails! if you think so, myn arm zoon, you musd be very ill indeed.”

“I am very ill,” groaned her son.  “I am not long for this world.”

“Oh! don’t say so, dear Blaize,” sobbed Patience, letting fall a plentiful shower of tears on his face.  “Don’t say so.  I can’t bear to part with you.”

“Then don’t survive me,” returned Blaize.  “But there’s little chance of your doing so.  You are certain to take the plague.”

“I care not what becomes of myself, if I lose you, Blaize,” responded Patience, bedewing his countenance with another shower; “but I hope you won’t die yet.”

“Ah! it’s all over with me—­all over,” rejoined Blaize.  “I told Leonard Holt how it would be.  I said I should be the next victim.  And my words are come true.”

“You are as clever as a conjurer,” sobbed Patience; “but I wish you hadn’t been right in this instance.  However, comfort yourself.  I’ll die with you.  We’ll be carried to the grave in the same plague-cart.”

“That’s cold comfort,” returned Blaize, angrily.  “I beg you’ll never mention the plague-cart again.  The thought of it makes me shiver all over—­oh!” And he uttered a dismal and prolonged groan.

At this juncture, Leonard thought it time to interfere.

“If you are really attacked by the plague, Blaize,” he said, advancing, “you must have instant advice.  Doctor Hodges is still upstairs with our master.  He must see you.”