By-and-by, with a wild and gibbering laugh that chilled the beholders’ blood, one of the tallest and grisliest of the skeletons sprang forward, and beating his drum, the whole ghostly company formed, two and two, into a line — a skeleton placing itself on the right of every mortal. In this order, the fantastic procession marched between the pillars, the unearthly music playing all the while, and disappeared at the further extremity of the church. With the last of the group, the mysterious light vanished, and Chowles and his companion were left in profound darkness.
“What can it mean?” cried Judith, as soon as she recovered her speech.
“Are they human, or spirits?”
“Human beings don’t generally amuse themselves in this way,” returned
Chowles. “But hark! — I still hear the music. — They are above — in Saint
Paul’s.”
“Then I will join them,” said Judith. “I am resolved to see the end of it.”
“Don’t leave me behind,” returned Chowles, following her. “I would rather keep company with Beelzebub and all his imps than be alone.”
Both were too well acquainted with the way to need any light. Ascending the broad stone steps, they presently emerged into the cathedral, which they found illumined by the same glimmering light as the lower church, and they perceived the ghostly assemblage gathered into an immense ring, and dancing round the tall skeleton, who continued beating his drum, and uttering a strange gibbering sound, which was echoed by the others. Each moment the dancers increased the swiftness of their pace, until at last it grew to a giddy whirl, and then, all at once, with a shriek of laughter, the whole company fell to the ground.
Chowles and Judith, then, for the first time, understood, from the confusion that ensued, and the exclamations uttered, that they were no spirits they had to deal with, but beings of the same mould as themselves. Accordingly, they approached the party of masquers, for such they proved, and found on inquiry that they were a party of young gallants, who, headed by the Earl of Rochester — the representative of the tall skeleton — had determined to realize the Dance of Death, as once depicted on the walls of an ancient cloister at the north of the cathedral, called Pardon-churchyard, on the walls of which, says Stowe, were “artificially and richly painted the Dance of Macabre, or Dance of Death, commonly called the Dance of Paul’s, the like whereof was painted about Saint Innocent’s, at Paris. The metres, or poesy of this dance,” proceeds the same authority, “were translated out of Trench into English by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, and, with the picture of Death leading all estates, painted about the cloister, at the special request and expense of Jenkin Carpenter, in the reign of Henry the Sixth.” Pardon-churchyard was pulled down by the Protector Somerset, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, and the materials employed in the erection of his own palace in the Strand. It was the discussion of these singular paintings, and of the designs on the same subject ascribed to Holbein, that led the Earl of Rochester and his companions to propose the fantastic spectacle above described. With the disposition which this reckless nobleman possessed to turn the most solemn and appalling subjects to jest, he thought no season so fitting for such an entertainment as the present — just as in our own time the lively Parisians made the cholera, while raging in their city, the subject of a carnival pastime. The exhibition witnessed by Chowles and Judith was a rehearsal of the masque intended to be represented in the cathedral on the following night.
Again marshalling his band, the Earl of Rochester beat his drum, and skipping before them, led the way towards the south door of the cathedral, which was thrown open by an unseen hand, and the procession glided through it like a troop of spectres. Chowles, whose appearance was not unlike that of an animated skeleton, was seized with a strange desire to join in what was going forward, and taking off his doublet, and baring his bony arms and legs, he followed the others, dancing round Judith in the same manner that the other skeletons danced round their partners.
On reaching the Convocation House, a door was opened, and the procession entered the cloisters; and here Chowles, dragging Judith into the area between him and the beautiful structure they surrounded, began a dance of so extraordinary a character that the whole troop collected round to witness it. Rochester beat his drum, and the other representatives of mortality who were provided with musical instruments struck up a wild kind of accompaniment, to which Chowles executed the most grotesque flourishes. So wildly excited did he become, and such extravagances did he commit, that even Judith stared aghast at him, and began to think his wits were fled. Now he whirled round her — now sprang high into the air — now twined his lean arms round her waist — now peeped over one shoulder, now over the other — and at last griped her neck so forcibly, that he might perhaps have strangled her, if she had not broken from him, and dealt him a severe blow that brought him senseless to the ground. On recovering, he found himself in the arched entrance of a large octagonal chamber, lighted at each side by a lofty pointed window filled with stained glass. Round this chamber ran a wide stone bench, with a richly-carved back of the same material, on which the masquers were seated, and opposite the entrance was a raised seat, ordinarily allotted to the dean, but now occupied by the Earl of Rochester. A circular oak table stood in the midst of the chamber, covered with magnificent silver dishes, heaped with the choicest viands, which were handed to the guests by the earl’s servants, all of whom represented skeletons, and it had a strange effect, to behold these ghastly objects filling the cups of the revellers, bending obsequiously before some blooming dame, or crowding round their spectral-looking lord.
At first, Chowles was so confused, that he thought he must have awakened in another world, but by degrees he called to mind what had occurred, and ascertained from Judith that he was in the Convocation House. Getting up, he joined the train of grisly attendants, and acquitted himself so well that the earl engaged him as performer in the masque. He was furthermore informed that, in all probability, the king himself, with many of his favourite nobles, and the chief court beauties, would be present to witness the spectacle.
The banquet over, word was brought that chairs and coaches were without, and the company departed, leaving behind only a few attendants, who remained to put matters in order.
While they were thus occupied, Judith, who had fixed her greedy eyes upon the plate, observed, in an under-tone, to Chowles, “There will be fine plunder for us. We must manage to carry off all that plate while they are engaged in the masque.”
“You must do it yourself, then,” returned Chowles, in the same tone— “for I shall have to play a principal part in the entertainment, and as the king himself will be present, I cannot give up such an opportunity of distinguishing myself.”
“You can have no share in the prize, if you lend no assistance,” replied
Judith, with a dissatisfied look.
“Of course not,” rejoined Chowles; “on this occasion it is all yours.
The Dance of Death is too much to my taste to be given up.”
Perceiving they were noticed, Chowles and Judith then left the Convocation House, and returned to the vault in Saint Faith’s, nor did they emerge from it until late on the following day.
Some rumour of the masque having gone abroad, towards evening a crowd, chiefly composed of the most worthless order of society, collected under the portico at the western entrance, and the great doors being opened by Chowles, they entered the cathedral. Thus was this sacred building once more invaded — once again a scene of noise, riot, and confusion — its vaulted roofs instead of echoing the voice of prayer, or the choral hymn, resounded with loud laughter, imprecations, and licentious discourse. This disorder, however, was kept in some bounds by a strong body of the royal guard, who soon afterwards arrived, and stationing themselves in parties of three or four at each of the massive columns flanking the aisles, maintained some show of decorum. Besides these, there were others of the royal attendants, bearing torches, who walked from place to place, and compe
lled all loiterers in dark corners to proceed to the nave.
A little before midnight, the great doors were again thrown open, and a large troop of richly-attired personages, all wearing masks, were admitted. For a short time they paced to and fro between its shafted pillars gazing at the spectators grouped around, and evidently, from their jests and laughter, not a little entertained by the scene. As the clock struck twelve, however, all sounds were hushed, and the courtly party stationed themselves on the steps leading to the choir. At the same moment, also, the torches were extinguished, and the whole of the building buried in profound darkness. Presently after, a sound was heard of footsteps approaching the nave, but nothing could be discerned. Expectation was kept on the rack for some minutes, during which many a stifled cry was heard from those whose courage failed them at this trying juncture. All at once, a blue light illumined the nave, and partially revealed the lofty pillars by which it was surrounded. By this light the whole of the ghostly company could be seen drawn up near the western door. They were arranged two and two, a skeleton standing as before on the right of each character. The procession next marched slowly and silently towards the choir, and drew up at the foot of the steps, to give the royal party an opportunity of examining them. After pausing there for a few minutes, Rochester, in the dress of the larger skeleton, started off, and, beating his drum, was followed by the pope and his attendant skeleton. This couple having danced together for some minutes, to the infinite diversion of the spectators, disappeared behind a pillar, and were succeeded by the monarch and a second skeleton. These, in their turn, gave way to the cardinal and his companion, and so on till the whole of the masquers had exhibited themselves, when at a signal from the earl the party re-appeared, and formed a ring round him. The dance was executed with great spirit, and elicited tumultuous applause from all the beholders. The earl now retired, and Chowles took his place. He was clothed in an elastic dress painted of a leaden and cadaverous colour, which fitted closely to his fleshless figure, and defined all his angularities. He carried an hour-glass in one hand and a dart in the other, and in the course of the dance kept continually pointing the latter at those who moved around him. His feats of the previous evening were nothing to his present achievements. His joints creaked, and his eyes flamed like burning coals. As he continued, his excitement increased. He bounded higher, and his countenance assumed so hideous an expression, that those near him recoiled in terror, crying, “Death himself had broke loose among them.” The consternation soon became general. The masquers fled in dismay, and scampered along the aisles scarcely knowing whither they were going. Delighted with the alarm he occasioned, Chowles chased a large party along the northern aisle, and was pursuing them across the transept upon which it opened, when he was arrested in his turn by another equally formidable figure, who suddenly placed himself in his path.
“Hold!” exclaimed Solomon Eagle — for it was the enthusiast — in a voice of thunder, “it is time this scandalous exhibition should cease. Know all ye who make a mockery of death, that his power will be speedily and fearfully approved upon you. Thine not to escape the vengeance of the Great Being whose temple you have profaned. And you, O king! who have sanctioned these evil doings by your presence, and who by your own dissolute life set a pernicious example to all your subjects, know that your city shall be utterly laid waste, first by plague and then by fire. Tremble! my warning is as terrible and true as the handwriting on the wall.”
“Who art thou who holdest this language towards me?” demanded Charles.
“I am called Solomon Eagle,” replied the enthusiast, “and am charged with a mission from on high to warn your doomed people of their fate. Be warned yourself, sire! Your end will be sudden. You will be snatched away in the midst of your guilty pleasure, and with little time for repentance. Be warned, I say again.”
With this he turned to depart.
“Secure the knave,” cried Charles, angrily. “He shall be soundly scourged for his insolence.”
But bursting through the guard, Solomon Eagle ran swiftly up the choir and disappeared, nor could his pursuers discover any traces of him.
“Strange!” exclaimed the king, when he was told of the enthusiast’s escape. “Let us go to supper. This masque has given me the vapours.”
“Pray Heaven it have not given us the plague,” observed the fair
Stewart, who stood beside him, taking his arm.
“It is to be hoped not,” rejoined Charles; “but, odds fish! it is a most dismal affair.”
“It is so, in more ways than one,” replied Rochester, “for I have just learnt that all my best plate has been carried off from the Convocation House. I shall only be able to offer your majesty and your fair partner a sorry supper.”
IV.
THE PLAGUE-PIT.
On being made acquainted by Leonard, who helped him out of the pest-cart, with the danger he had run, the piper uttered a cry of terror, and swooned away. The buriers, seeing how matters stood, and that their superstitious fears were altogether groundless, now returned, and one of them, producing a phial of vinegar, sprinkled the fainting man with it, and speedily brought him to himself. But though so far recovered, his terror had by no means abated, and he declared his firm conviction that he was infected by the pestilence.
“I have been carried towards the plague-pit by mistake,” he said. “I shall soon be conveyed thither in right earnest, and not have the power of frightening away my conductors on the road.”
“Pooh! pooh!” cried one of the buriers, jestingly. “I hope you will often ride with us, and play us many a merry tune as you go. You shall always be welcome to a seat in the cart.”
“Be of good cheer,” added Leonard, “and all will be well. Come with me to an apothecary’s shop, and I will procure a cordial for you, which shall speedily dispel your qualms.”
The piper shook his head, and replied, with a deep groan, that he was certain all was over with him.
“However, I will not reject your kindness,” he added, “though I feel I am past the help of medicine.”
“With this, he whistled to Bell, who was skipping about Leonard, having recognised him on his first approach, and they proceeded towards the second postern in London-wall, between Moorgate and Cripplegate; while the buriers, laughing heartily at the adventure, took their way towards the plague-pit, and discharged their dreadful load within it. Arrived in Basinghall-street, and looking round, Leonard soon discovered by the links at the door, as well as by the crowd collected before it — for day and night the apothecaries’ dwellings were besieged by the sick — the shop of which he was in search. It was long before they could obtain admittance, and during this time the piper said he felt himself getting rapidly worse; but, imagining he was merely labouring under the effect of fright, Leonard paid little attention to his complaints. The apothecary, however, no sooner set eyes upon him, than he pronounced him infected, and, on examination, it proved that the fatal tokens had already appeared.
“I knew it was so,” cried the piper. “Take me to the pest-house — take me to the pest-house!”
“His desire had better be complied with,” observed the apothecary. “He is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to do so two hours hence. It is a bad case,” he added in an under-tone to Leonard.
Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields. Here they paused for a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking gleefully.
“Poor Bell!” cried the piper; “what will become of thee when I am gone?”
“If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her,” replied
Leonard.
“She is yours,” rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Be kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress.”
“Since you have alluded to your daughter,” returned Leonard, “I must tell you what has become of her. I have not hitherto mention
ed the subject, fearing it might distress you.”
“Have no further consideration, but speak out,” rejoined the piper. “Be it what it may, I will bear it like a man.”
Leonard then briefly recounted all that had occurred, describing Nizza’s disguise as a page, and her forcible abduction by Parravicin. He was frequently interrupted by the groans of his hearer, who at last gave vent to his rage and anguish in words.
“Heaven’s direst curse upon her ravisher!” he cried. “May he endure worse misery than I now endure. She is lost for ever.”
“She may yet be preserved,” rejoined Leonard. “Doctor Hodges thinks he has discovered her retreat, and I will not rest till I find her.”
“No — no, you will never find her,” replied the piper, bitterly; “or if you do, it will be only to bewail her ruin.”
His rage then gave way to such an access of grief, that, letting his head fall on Leonard’s shoulder, he wept aloud.
“There is a secret connected with that poor girl,” he said, at length, controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, “which must now go to the grave with me. The knowledge of it would only add to her distress.”
“You view the matter too unfavourably,” replied Leonard; “and if the secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me. If your worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall never be revealed to her.”
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