what he had seen was a
warning of his own death. The chamber was full of godly ministers, who
would not let her send for a doctor, saying the case was in their way,
and that they would dispossess him. But in spite of all they did, he
grew worse, and was in such terrible convulsions, that she feared if he
did not make away with himself, still he must die.

Sedley sincerely pitied her distress, and, in compliance with her
wishes, promised to send the good old Doctor to her to try if he could
do any good. A lover sees his mistress in every object. Combining the
suspicions of Morgan, the appearance at the mausoleum, and the
night-wanderings of Isabel, a sudden apprehension came across Sedley's
mind, and determined him to see to what part of the park the sycamore
avenue pointed, and he soon found it ended in a coppice, which shaded a
ruined church, and a stately sepulchre, inclosed with iron pallisades,
that had escaped the general pillage, which, in those times of rapacious
sacrilege, spared not the altar of religion nor the silent repositories
of the dead.

Sedley examined the modern structure. The gate was closed, and the bolts
rusted in the wards. The long withered grass bore no marks of having
been recently trodden; every thing appeared in the state in which it
might be supposed to have been left, when the vain-glorious unfortunate
projector of this monumental trophy of his own greatness augmented the
heaps of dead who were interred without religious rite or distinction of
rank, after the fatal battle of Marston-Moor ended the efforts of the
Royalists in the north of England. The unoccupied tomb stood as a solemn
warning against the fond precautions of low cunning and versatile
policy. Sedley now proceeded to the church, which was a complete ruin.
The roof was broken, and the entrances were blocked up with large stones
that had fallen from the walls; yet not so totally, but that a slender
person might find admittance into the building from the south-porch. As
he looked in, he thought fancy might select this as the scene where the
Anglican church, prostrate on her own ruins, mourned her departed glory
and her present desolation in undisturbed silence, far from the sympathy
of her friends, and the insults of her enemies. He called aloud, but the
echo of his own voice reverberating through the aisles was his only
answer. Though the wintry sun shone with meridian splendor, and cast his
slanting rays through the apertures i