“And now,” said Charles, “other and less pleasing matters claim our attention.  Let the Lady Isabella be removed, under the charge of Doctor Hodges, to Whitehall, where apartments shall be provided for her at once, together with fitting attendants, and where she can remain till this terrible conflagration is over which, I trust, soon will be, when I will no longer delay her happiness, but give her away in person.  Chiffinch,” he added to the chief page, “see all this is carried into effect.”

“I will, my liege, and right willingly,” replied Chiffinch.

“I would send you with her, my lord,” pursued Charles to Argentine, “but I have other duties for you to fulfil.  The plan you proposed of demolishing the houses with gunpowder shall be immediately put into operation, under your own superintendence.”

A chair was now brought, and the Lady Isabella, after a tender parting with her lover, being placed within it, she was thus transported, under the charge of Hodges and Chiffinch, to Whitehall, where she arrived in safety, though not without having sustained some hindrance and inconvenience.

She had not been gone many minutes, when the conflagration of the cathedral assumed its most terrific character; the whole of the mighty roof falling in, and the flames soaring upwards, as before related.  Up to this time, Solomon Eagle had maintained his position at the eastern end of the roof, and still grasped the stone cross.  His situation now attracted universal attention, for it was evident he must speedily perish.

“Poor wretch!” exclaimed the king, shuddering, “I fear there is no way of saving him.”

“None, whatever my liege,” replied Rochester, “nor do I believe he would consent to it if there were.  But he is again menacing your majesty.”

As Rochester spoke, Solomon Eagle shook his arm menacingly at the royal party, raising it aloft, as if invoking the vengeance of Heaven.  He then knelt down upon the sloping ridge of the roof, as if in prayer, and his figure, thus seen relieved against the mighty sheet of flame, might have been taken for an image of Saint John the Baptist carved in stone.  Not an eye in the vast crowd below but was fixed on him.  In a few moments he rose again, and tossing his arms aloft, and shrieking, in a voice distinctly heard above the awful roar around him, the single word “Resurgam!” flung himself headlong into the flaming abyss.  A simultaneous cry of horror rose from the whole assemblage on beholding this desperate action.

“The last exclamation of the poor wretch may apply to the cathedral, as well as to himself,” remarked the monarch, to a middle-aged personage, with a pleasing and highly intellectual countenance, standing near him:  “for the old building shall rise again, like a phoenix from its fires, with renewed beauty, and under your superintendence, Doctor Christopher Wren.”

The great architect bowed.  “I cannot hope to erect such another structure,” he said, modestly; “but I will endeavour to design an edifice that shall not disgrace your majesty’s city.”