"This grand bonfire of our most worshipful Lord Mayor will be a sight
worth seeing," remarked the earl. "When all these piles are lighted, the
city will be one sea of fire."
"A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold in
another world," said the page, with a French shrug. "I have heard
Lilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire, like a second
Sodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night."
"Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place to
view the conflagration."
"The river will do almost as well, my lord."
"We will have a chance of knowing that presently," said the earl, as he
and his page descended to the river, where the little gilded barge lay
moored, and the boatman waiting.
As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched thoughtfully
after them. The face and figure were that of the lady, but the voice
was different; both were clear and musical enough, but she spoke English
with the purest accent, while his was the voice of a foreigner. It most
have been one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimes
see among perfect strangers, but the resemblance in this ease was
something wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself sad his
own fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and his
plague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he could possibly
be about just then, or what he had discovered in the old ruin. Suddenly
he was aroused; a moment before, the silence had been almost oppressive
but now on the wings of the night, there came a shout. A tumult of
voices and footsteps were approaching.
"Stop her! Stop her!" was cried by many voices; and the next instant a
fleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and plunged head foremost
into she river.
A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair of
deepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms. Only for
an instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his very heart stood
still. "Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the plague!" shouted the
crowd, preying panting on; but they came too late; the white vision had
gone down into the black, sluggish river, and disappeared.
"Who is it? What is it? Where is it?" cried two or three watchmen,
brandishing their halberds, and rushing up; and the crowd-a small mob of
a dozen or so-answered all at once: "She is delirious with the plague;
she was running through the streets; we gave chase, but she out-stepped
us, and is now at the bottom of the Thames."
Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to the
waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and many
eyes within them were turned in the direction whence she had gone down.
Soon she reappeared on the dark surface--something whiter than snow,
whiter than death; shining like silver, shone the glittering dress and
marble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston
stood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing
vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was
forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over the
edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted her
in. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, the
batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited face
toward the Earl of Rochester.