vantage of an unguarded movement, occasioned
by the other's impetuosity, passed his sword through his body.

Disbrowe fell.

"You are again successful," he groaned, "but save my wife--save her."

"What mean you?" cried Parravicin, leaning over him, as he wiped his
sword.

But Disbrowe could make no answer. His utterance was choked by a sudden
effusion of blood on the lungs, and he instantly expired. Leaving the
body in care of the second, Parravicin and his friends returned to the
coach, where the major rejoiced greatly at the issue of the duel; but
the knight looked grave, and pondered upon the words of the dying man.
After a time, however, he recovered his spirits, and dined with his
friends at the Smyrna; but they observed that he drank more deeply than
usual. His excesses did not, however, prevent him from playing with his
usual skill, and he won a large sum from Rochester at hazard.

Flushed with success, and heated with wine, he walked up to Disbrowe's
residence about an hour after midnight. As he approached the house, he
observed a strangely-shaped cart at the door, and, halting for a moment,
saw a body, wrapped in a shroud, brought out. Could it be Mrs. Disbrowe?
Rushing forward, to one of the assistants in black cloaks--and who was
no other than Chowles--he asked whom he was about to inter.

"It is a Mrs. Disbrowe," replied the coffin-maker. "She died of grief,
because her husband was killed this morning in a duel; but as she had
the plague, it must be put down to that. We are not particular in such
matters, and shall bury her and her husband together; and as there is no
money left to pay for coffins, they must go to the grave without them.
What, ho! Mother Malmayns, let Jonas have the captain as soon as you
have stripped him. I must be starting."

And as the body of his victim was brought forth, Parravicin fell against
the wall in a state almost of stupefaction.

At this moment Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, suddenly
turned the corner of the street, and stationing himself before the
dead-cart, cried in a voice of thunder, "Woe to the libertine! woe to
the homicide! for he shall perish in everlasting fire! Woe! woe!"

BOOK THE SECOND.

MAY, 1665.

I.

PROGRESS OF THE PESTILENCE.

Towards the middle of May, the bills of mortality began to swell greatly
in amount, and though but few were put down to the plague, and a large
number to the spotted fever (another frightful disord