“They're not bonfires,” said Sir Norman; “at least they are not intended for that; and if your head was not fuller of that masked Witch of Endor than common sense (for I believe she is nothing better than a witch), you could not have helped knowing. The Lord Mayor of London has been inspired suddenly, with a notion, that if several thousand fires are kindled at once in the streets, it will purify the air, and check the pestilence; so when St. Paul's tolls the hour of midnight, all these piles are to be fired. It will be a glorious illumination, no doubt; but as to its stopping the progress of the plague, I am afraid that it is altogether too good to be true.” “Why should you doubt it? The plague cannot last forever.” “No. But Lilly, the astrologer, who predicted its coming, also foretold that it would last for many months yet; and since one prophecy has come true, I see no reason why the other should not.” “Except the simple one that there would be nobody left alive to take it. All London will be lying in the plague-pits by that time.” “A pleasant prospect; but a true one, I have no doubt. And, as I have no ambition to be hurled headlong into one of those horrible holes, I shall leave town altogether in a few days. And, Ormiston, I would strongly recommend you to follow my example.” “Not I!” said Ormiston, in a tone of gloomy resolution. “While La Masque stays, so will I.” “And perhaps die of the plague in a week.” “So be it! I don't fear the plague half as much as I do the thought of losing her!” Again Sir Norman stared. “Oh, I see! It's a hopeless case! Faith, I begin to feel curious to see this enchantress, who has managed so effectually to turn your brain. When did you see her last?” “Yesterday,” said Ormiston, with a deep sigh. “And if she were made of granite, she could not be harder to me than she is!” “So she doesn't care about you, then?” “Not she! She has a little Blenheim lapdog, that she loves a thousand times more than she ever will me!” “Then what an idiot you are, to keep haunting her like her shadow! Why don't you be a man, and tear out from your heart such a goddess?” “Ah! that's easily said; but if you were in my place, you'd act exactly as I do.” “I don't believe it. It's not in me to go mad about anything with a masked face and a marble heart. If I loved any woman--which, thank Fortune! at this present time I do not--and she had the bad taste not to return it, I should take my hat, make her a bow, and go directly and love somebody else made of flesh and blood, instead of cast iron! You know the old song, Ormiston: 'If she be not fair for me What care I how fair she be!'” “Kingsley, you know nothing about it!” said Ormiston, impatiently. “So stop talking nonsense. If you are cold-blooded, I am not; and--I love her!” Sir Norman slightly shrugged his shoulders, and flung his smoked-out weed into a heap of fire-wood. “Are we near her house?” he asked. “Yonder is the bridge.”