His countenance was rough but intelligent—­his ample brow and quick grey eyes seemed to look out, over his own plans, and the opposition of his enemies.  His voice was stentorian:  his hand stretched out in debate, seemed by its gigantic and muscular form, to warn his hearers that words were not his only weapons.  Few people had discovered some cowardice and much infirmity of purpose under this imposing exterior.  No man could crush a “butterfly on the wheel” with better effect; no man better cover a speedy retreat from a powerful adversary.  This had been the secret of his secession at the time of Lord Raymond’s election.  In the unsteady glance of his eye, in his extreme desire to learn the opinions of all, in the feebleness of his hand-writing, these qualities might be obscurely traced, but they were not generally known.  He was now our Lord Protector.  He had canvassed eagerly for this post.  His protectorate was to be distinguished by every kind of innovation on the aristocracy.  This his selected task was exchanged for the far different one of encountering the ruin caused by the convulsions of physical nature.  He was incapable of meeting these evils by any comprehensive system; he had resorted to expedient after expedient, and could never be induced to put a remedy in force, till it came too late to be of use.

Certainly the Ryland that advanced towards us now, bore small resemblance to the powerful, ironical, seemingly fearless canvasser for the first rank among Englishmen.  Our native oak, as his partisans called him, was visited truly by a nipping winter.  He scarcely appeared half his usual height; his joints were unknit, his limbs would not support him; his face was contracted, his eye wandering; debility of purpose and dastard fear were expressed in every gesture.

In answer to our eager questions, one word alone fell, as it were involuntarily, from his convulsed lips:  The Plague.—­“Where?”—­“Every where—­we must fly—­all fly—­but whither?  No man can tell—­there is no refuge on earth, it comes on us like a thousand packs of wolves—­we must all fly—­where shall you go?  Where can any of us go?”

These words were syllabled trembling by the iron man.  Adrian replied, “Whither indeed would you fly?  We must all remain; and do our best to help our suffering fellow-creatures.”

“Help!” said Ryland, “there is no help!—­great God, who talks of help!  All the world has the plague!”

“Then to avoid it, we must quit the world,” observed Adrian, with a gentle smile.

Ryland groaned; cold drops stood on his brow.  It was useless to oppose his paroxysm of terror:  but we soothed and encouraged him, so that after an interval he was better able to explain to us the ground of his alarm.  It had come sufficiently home to him.  One of his servants, while waiting on him, had suddenly fallen down dead.  The physician declared that he died of the plague.  We endeavoured to calm him—­but our own hearts were not calm.