“And so my husband has got the plague,” muttered Mother Malmayns, as she hastened towards Saint Paul’s, after the reproof she had received from Doctor Hodges.  “Well, it’s a disorder that few recover from, and I don’t think he stands a better chance than his fellows.  I’ve been troubled with him long enough.  I’ve borne his ill-usage and savage temper for twenty years, vainly hoping something would take him off; but though he tried his constitution hard, it was too tough to yield.  However, he’s likely to go now.  If I find him better than I expect, I can easily make all sure.  That’s one good thing about the plague.  You may get rid of a patient without any one being the wiser.  A wrong mixture—­a pillow removed—­a moment’s chill during the fever—­a glass of cold water—­the slightest thing will do it.  Matthew Malmayns, you will die of the plague, that’s certain.  But I must be careful how I proceed.  That cursed doctor has his eye upon me.  As luck would have it, I’ve got Sibbald’s ointment in my pocket.  That is sure to do its business—­and safely.”

Thus ruminating, she shaped her course towards the southwest corner of the cathedral, and passing under the shrouds and cloisters of the Convocation House, raised the latch of a small wooden shed fixed in the angle of a buttress.  Evidently well acquainted with the place, she was not long in finding a lantern and materials to light it, and inserting her fingers in a crevice of the masonry, from which the mortar had been removed, she drew forth a key.

“It has not been stirred since I left it here a month ago,” she muttered.  “I must take care of this key, for if Matthew should die, I may not be able to enter the vaults of Saint Faith’s without it; and as I know all their secret places and passages, which nobody else does, except my husband, I can make them a storehouse for the plunder I may obtain during the pestilence.  If it rages for a year, or only half that time, and increases in violence (as God grant it may), I will fill every hole in those walls with gold.”

With this, she took up the lantern, and crept along the side of the cathedral, until she came to a flight of stone steps.  Descending them, she unlocked a small but strong door, cased with iron, and fastening it after her, proceeded along a narrow stone passage, which brought her to another door, opening upon the south aisle of Saint Faith’s.

Pausing for a moment to listen whether any one was within the sacred structure—­for such was the dead and awful silence of the place, that the slightest whisper or footfall, even at its farthest extremity, could be distinguished—­she crossed to the other side, glancing fearfully around her as she threaded the ranks of pillars, whose heavy and embrowned shafts her lantern feebly illumined, and entering a recess, took a small stone out of the wall, and deposited the chief part of the contents of her pocket behind it, after which she carefully replaced the stone.  This done, she hurried to the charnel, and softly opened the door of the crypt.