l night,
when it resembled, as an eye-witness describes, "a mighty palace of
gold, or a great building of burnished brass."

The greatest fury of the conflagration was displayed at the Poultry,
where five distinct fires met, and united their forces--one which came
roaring down Cornhill from the Royal Exchange--a second down
Threadneedle-street--a third up Walbrook--a fourth along
Bucklersbury--and a fifth that marched against the wind up Cheapside,
all these uniting, as at a focus, a whirl of flame, an intensity of
heat, and a thundering roar were produced, such as were nowhere else
experienced.

To return to the party on the central tower of the cathedral:--Stunned
and half stifled by the roar and smoke, Leonard and his companions
descended from their lofty post, and returned to the body of the fane.
They were about to issue forth, when Leonard, glancing down the northern
aisle, perceived the Earl of Rochester and Lord Argentine standing
together at the lower end of it. Their gestures showed that it was not
an amicable meeting, and mindful of what had passed at Whitehall,
Leonard resolved to abide the result. Presently, he saw Lord Argentine
turn sharply round, and strike his companion in the face with his glove.
The clash of swords instantly succeeded, and Leonard and Wingfield
started forward to separate the combatants. Blaize, followed, but more
cautiously, contenting himself with screaming at the top of his voice,
"Murder! murder! sacrilege! a duel! a duel!"

Wingfield was the first to arrive at the scene of strife, but just as he
reached the combatants, who were too much blinded by passion to notice
his approach, Lord Argentine struck his adversary's weapon from his
grasp, and would have followed up the advantage if the farmer had not
withheld his arm. Enraged at the interference, Argentine turned his fury
against the newcomer, and strove to use his sword against him--but in
the terrible struggle that ensued, and at the close of which they fell
together, the weapon, as if directed by the hand of an avenging fate,
passed through his own breast, inflicting a mortal wound.

"Susan Wingfield is avenged!" said the farmer, as he arose, drenched in
the blood of his opponent.

"Susan Wingfield!" exclaimed the wounded man--"what was she to you?"

"Much," replied the farmer. "She was my daughter."

"Ah!" exclaimed Argentine, with an expression of unutterable anguish.
"Let me have your forgiveness," he groaned.

"Y