“Ah!” she exclaimed, in the utmost astonishment.

“I told you we should meet again,” he rejoined; “and I have kept my word.”

“Think not to deceive me, my lord,” she returned, controlling her emotion by a powerful effort.  “I am aware you are not Maurice Wyvil, but the Earl of Rochester.  Your love is as false as your character.  Mistress Mallet is the real object of your regards.  You see I am acquainted with your perfidy.”

“Amabel, you are deceived,” replied Rochester.  “On my soul, you are.  When I have an opportunity of explaining myself more fully, I will prove to you that I was induced by the king, for an especial purpose, to pay feigned addresses to the lady you have named.  But I never loved her.  You alone are the possessor of my heart, and shall be the sharer of my title.  You shall be Countess of Rochester.”

“Could I believe you?” she cried.

“You may believe me,” he answered.  “Do not blight my hopes and your own happiness a second time.  Your father is about to shut up his house for a twelvemonth, if the plague lasts so long.  This done, we shall meet no more, for access to you will be impossible.  Do not hesitate, or you will for ever rue your irresolution.”

“I know not what to do,” cried Amabel, distractedly.

“Then I will decide for you,” replied the earl, grasping her hand.  “Come!”

While this was passing, Furbisher, or rather, as will be surmised, Pillichody, had taken Blaize aside, and engaged his attention by dilating upon the efficacy of a roasted onion filled with treacle in the expulsion of the plague.  Patience stationed herself near the door, not with a view of interfering with the lovers, but rather of assisting them; and at the very moment that the earl seized his mistress’s hand, and would have drawn her forward, she ran towards them, and hastily whispered, “Leonard Holt is coming downstairs.”

“Ah!  I am lost!” cried Amabel.

“Fear nothing,” said the earl.  “Keep near me, and I will soon dispose of him.”

As he spoke, the apprentice entered the kitchen, and, greatly surprised by the appearance of the strangers, angrily demanded from Blaize who they were.

“They are two doctors come to give me advice respecting the plague,” stammered the porter.

“How did they get into the house?” inquired Leonard.

“I let them in through the back door,” replied Blaize.

“Then let them out by the same way,” rejoined the apprentice.  “May I ask what you are doing here?” he added, to Amabel.

“What is that to you, fellow?” cried Rochester, in his assumed voice.

“Much, as you shall find, my lord,” replied the apprentice; “for, in spite of your disguise, I know you.  Quit the house instantly with your companion, or I will give the alarm, and Amabel well knows what the consequences will be.”

“You must go, my lord,” she replied.