s."

"True, true," replied Blaize; "I had forgotten that. Let me go with you,
dear Leonard. I dare not remain here longer."

"What! would you leave your kind good master, at a time like this, when
he most needs your services?" rejoined Leonard, reproachfully. "Out,
cowardly hound! I am ashamed of you. Shake off your fears, and be a man.
You can but die once; and what matters it whether you die of the plague
or the cholic?"

"It matters a great deal," replied Blaize. "I am afraid of nothing but
the plague. I am sure I shall be its next victim in this house. But you
are right--I cannot desert my kind master, nor my old mother. Farewell,
Leonard. Perhaps we may never meet again. I may be dead before you come
back. I feel very ill already."

"No wonder, after all the stuff you have swallowed," returned Leonard.
"But pluck up your courage, or you will bring on the very thing you are
anxious to avoid. As many people have died from fear as from any other
cause. One word before I go. If any one should get into the house by
scaling the yard-wall, or through the window, instantly alarm our
master."

"Certainly," returned Blaize, with a look of surprise, "But do you
expect any one to enter the house in that way?"

"Ask no questions, but do as I bid you," rejoined Leonard, opening the
door, and about to go forth.

"Stop a moment," cried Blaize, detaining him, and drawing from his
pocket a handful of simples. "Won't you take some of them with you to
guard against infection? There's wormwood, woodsorrel, masterwort,
zedoary, and angelica; and lastly, there is a little bottle of the
sovereign preservative against the plague, as prepared by the great Lord
Bacon, and approved by Queen Elizabeth. Won't you take _that_?"

"I have no fear," replied Leonard, shutting the door in his face. And as
he lingered for a moment while it was locked, he heard Blaize say to
himself, "I must go and take three more rufuses and a large dose of
diascordium."

It was a bright moonlight night, and as the apprentice turned to depart,
he perceived a figure hastily retreating on the other side of the way.
Making sure it was Maurice Wyvil, though he could not distinguish the
garb of the person--that side of the street being in the shade--and
stung by jealousy, he immediately started in pursuit. The fugitive
struck down Lad-lane, and run on till he came to the end of
Lawrence-lane, where, finding himself closely pressed, he suddenly
halted, and pulli