Watching its progress with fearful curiosity, the young man noted how
often it paused to increase its load. His thoughts, coloured by the
scene, were of the saddest and dreariest complexion. All around wore the
aspect of death. The few figures in sight seemed staggering towards the
grave, and the houses appeared to be plague-stricken like the
inhabitants. The heat was intolerably oppressive, and the air tainted
with noisome exhalations. Ever and anon, a window would be opened, and a
ghastly face thrust from it, while a piercing shriek, or lamentable cry,
was uttered. No business seemed going on--there were no passengers--no
vehicles in the streets. The mighty city was completely laid prostrate.
After a short rest, the young man shaped his course towards Saint
Paul's, and on reaching its western precincts, gazed for some time at
the reverend structure, as if its contemplation called up many and
painful recollections. Tears started to his eyes, and he was about to
turn away, when he perceived the figure of Solomon Eagle stationed near
the cross at the western extremity of the roof. The enthusiast caught
sight of him at the same moment, and motioned him to come nearer. "What
has happened?" he demanded, as the other approached the steps of the
portico.
The young man shook his head mournfully. "It is a sad tale," he said,
"and cannot be told now.
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