ong the silent streets. Sometimes a window
would be opened from above, and a doleful voice would cry aloud in
grief or anguish of mind, or some command would be shouted to the
watchman beneath, or there would be a piercing cry for the dead
cart as it rumbled by. The boys at last grew used to the sound of
the bell and the wheels. Go where they would they could not avoid
hearing one or another as the men went about their dismal errand.
It seemed less terrible after a time than it had done at first, and
the bold spirit within them came back.

They wended their way northward, avoiding the narrower
thoroughfares and keeping to the broader streets. Even these were
often very narrow and ill smelling, so that the brothers had
recourse to their vinegar bottle or swallowed a spoonful of Venice
treacle before venturing down. Once they were forced to turn aside
out of their way to avoid a heap of corpses that had been brought
out from a narrow alley to wait for the cart. They had heard of
such things before, but to see them was tenfold more terrible. Yet
the spirit of adventure took possession of them as they passed
along, and they were less afraid even of the most terrible things
than they had been of lesser ones at starting.

In passing near to the little church of St. Margaret's, Lothbury,
they were attracted by the sound of a voice crying out as if in
excitement or fear. Being filled with curiosity in spite of their
fears, they turned in the direction of the sound, and came upon a
man clutching hard at the railings of the little churchyard, which
like all others in that part was now filled to overflowing, and
closed for burials, the dead being taken to the great pits dug in
various places. Night though it was, there was a small crowd of
persons gathered round the railings, all peering in with eager
faces, whilst the voice of the man at the corner kept calling out:

"See! see! there she goes! She stands there by yon tall tombstone
waving her arms over her head! Now she is wringing her hands, and
weeping again.

"O my wife, my wife! do you not know me? I am here, Margaret, I am
here! Weep not for the children who are dead; weep for unhappy me,
who am left alive. Ay, it is for the living that men should weep
and howl. The dead are at peace--their troubles are over; but our
agony is yet to come.

"Margaret! Margaret! look at me! pity me!

"Ah, she will not hear! She turns away! See, she is gliding hither
and thither seekin