he
shop of which he was in search. It was long before they could obtain
admittance, and during this time the piper said he felt himself getting
rapidly worse; but, imagining he was merely labouring under the effect
of fright, Leonard paid little attention to his complaints. The
apothecary, however, no sooner set eyes upon him, than he pronounced him
infected, and, on examination, it proved that the fatal tokens had
already appeared.

"I knew it was so," cried the piper. "Take me to the pest-house--take me
to the pest-house!"

"His desire had better be complied with," observed the apothecary. "He
is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to
do so two hours hence. It is a bad case," he added in an under-tone to
Leonard.

Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing
through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields. Here they paused for
a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking
gleefully.

"Poor Bell!" cried the piper; "what will become of thee when I am gone?"

"If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her," replied
Leonard.

"She is yours," rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "Be
kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress."

"Since you have alluded to your daughter," returned Leonard, "I must
tell you what has become of her. I have not hitherto mentioned the
subject, fearing it might distress you."

"Have no further consideration, but speak out," rejoined the piper. "Be
it what it may, I will bear it like a man."

Leonard then briefly recounted all that had occurred, describing Nizza's
disguise as a page, and her forcible abduction by Parravicin. He was
frequently interrupted by the groans of his hearer, who at last gave
vent to his rage and anguish in words.

"Heaven's direst curse upon her ravisher!" he cried. "May he endure
worse misery than I now endure. She is lost for ever."

"She may yet be preserved," rejoined Leonard. "Doctor Hodges thinks he
has discovered her retreat, and I will not rest till I find her."

"No--no, you will never find her," replied the piper, bitterly; "or if
you do, it will be only to bewail her ruin."

His rage then gave way to such an access of grief, that, letting his
head fall on Leonard's shoulder, he wept aloud.

"There is a secret connected with that poor girl," he said, at length,
controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, "which must now go