vered. This personage Claude soon learned was the King; another rider, covered with dust and grime, he recognised as the Duke of York. The cavalier with whom he had seen Nell Gwyn was also near the king, holding the bridle of his horse, which snorted with terror as every gust of wind blew showers of burning sparks among them. A few soldiers, fixed like men of bronze, stood aroundbut no one stirred-the uselessness of all resistance seemed tacitly allowed.

The heat was now intolerable, and Claude thought that the stones beneath his feet were turning redhot; but the fascination of terror kept all chained to the spot. St. Paul's—the great St. Paul's, the glory of London-was in flames! The whole summit of the church (for the wind had conveyed the elements of destruction there first) was in a blaze. The galleries were wrapped in luminous torrents; shining volleys of flame burst out every instant in every direction, and baffled all hope of saving the enormous building. The lead was melting like snow before the sun, from the vast roofs; the stupendous beams, the enormous masses of stone, were yielding and falling with deafening uproar, and crushing in the roof of the church of St. Faith,

like an excrescence on the majestic

which grew structure above.

To add to the terrors of this scene, numbers of the sick-some dying of the still lingering plaguewere borne past on their beds, or in blankets. One was carried close to Claude, in the last agonies, covered with purple sores, and yelling hideously as he pointed to the flames-" Hell, hell!"

The scene had now attained its highest pitch of horror, and St. Paul's presented for some minutes the appearance of a cathedral built of fire, till at length the roof fell in, with a roar like that of the sea breaking on a rock in a storm. All then became one immense pyramid of fire, the flames of which lapped the sky. Yet, even in this terrific moment, Claude heard the king whisper to the cavalier at his bridle, "Oddsfish, man, methinks I only need a fiddle to substantiate the comparison with Nero, which my loving subjects are constantly making.”

Faith, sire, I think this will stop their complaints about the want of fuel,” replied the cavalier. "The citizens may roast their dinners here cheap enough."

"Look, Wren! what sort of immortality have you architects?" continued the king, turning to a

grave-looking man in sad-coloured brocade, who seemed attentively watching the conflagration.. "See you there! Inigo's magnificent portico is fuel for a bonfire."

""Tis possible to build one that shall surpass it, sire," returned the architect.

"Will you, then, be our Michael Angelo, doctor?" replied the king, smiling.

"Yes, an' it please your majesty,” replied Wren, smiling too, but with a deep flush, and a luminous sparkle of the eye.

At this moment Claude was conscious that some one was looking at him intently, over a wall of the churchyard, on which clustered a throng of the lowest populace. To feel that this gazer was Blood, and that he was detected, was in Claude simultaneous with an attempt to fly. For some minutes, however, the turbulence of the crowd made it impossible to force a way; but he succeeded at length in reaching an open place. Certain now that he was still pursued, he resolved to make for Whitehall as fast as possible. That he was followed was, however, in a few minutes evident, for as he turned into Holborn, then a long succession of straggling houses and gardens, he heard voices shouting,

"Stop him, stop him! a Jesuit, a spy!" and louder than all, resounded Blood's dread tones.

These cries seemed to lend Claude wings: leaving the burning city in his rear, he ran, with the child in his arms, over the fields between Holborn and the Strand. Still he imagined he heard voices calling to each other, and the distant tramp of pursuers; and he continued running as fast as his living burden permitted, until he reached a stile near the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Here he ventured to breathe and look round; but his consternation was again excited by observing several men with torches and drawn swords, crossing the opposite hedge. To leap the stile, and resume his flight, was but a moment's thought; still the pursuers had evidently caught sight of their prey, and renewed the chase with loud halloos.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FLIGHT.

COLLECTING his fainting strength with a last effort, Duval continued his course rapidly, and leaving the palace and gardens of Whitehall on his left, plunged down a passage between two dead walls, which led to the stairs where Edwards was to meet him. In a moment his feet were on the lowest step of the landing-place-in vain !—not a living soul appeared, nought but the river was there, rolling in the fiery fog which enveloped all things. He drew his sword, and looked around to ascertain if no less desperate resource presented itself. The balustrade leading to the river had a