Kitabı oku: «Old Saint Paul's: A Tale of the Plague and the Fire», sayfa 19
IV.
THE PLAGUE-PIT
On being made acquainted by Leonard, who helped him out of the pest-cart, with the danger he had run, the piper uttered a cry of terror, and swooned away. The buriers, seeing how matters stood, and that their superstitious fears were altogether groundless, now returned, and one of them, producing a phial of vinegar, sprinkled the fainting man with it, and speedily brought him to himself. But though so far recovered, his terror had by no means abated, and he declared his firm conviction that he was infected by the pestilence.
"I have been carried towards the plague-pit by mistake," he said. "I shall soon be conveyed thither in right earnest, and not have the power of frightening away my conductors on the road."
"Pooh! pooh!" cried one of the buriers, jestingly. "I hope you will often ride with us, and play us many a merry tune as you go. You shall always be welcome to a seat in the cart."
"Be of good cheer," added Leonard, "and all will be well. Come with me to an apothecary's shop, and I will procure a cordial for you, which shall speedily dispel your qualms."
The piper shook his head, and replied, with a deep groan, that he was certain all was over with him.
"However, I will not reject your kindness," he added, "though I feel I am past the help of medicine."
"With this, he whistled to Bell, who was skipping about Leonard, having recognised him on his first approach, and they proceeded towards the second postern in London-wall, between Moorgate and Cripplegate; while the buriers, laughing heartily at the adventure, took their way towards the plague-pit, and discharged their dreadful load within it. Arrived in Basinghall-street, and looking round, Leonard soon discovered by the links at the door, as well as by the crowd collected before it—for day and night the apothecaries' dwellings were besieged by the sick—the 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 to the grave with me. The knowledge of it would only add to her distress."
"You view the matter too unfavourably," replied Leonard; "and if the secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me. If your worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall never be revealed to her."
"On that condition only, I will confide it to you," replied the piper; "but not now—not now—to-morrow morning, if I am alive."
"It may be out of your power then," returned Leonard, "For your daughter's sake, I urge you not to delay."
"It is for her sake I am silent," rejoined the piper. "Come along—come along" he added, hurrying forward. "Are we far from the pest-house? My strength is failing me."
On arriving at their destination, they were readily admitted to the asylum; but a slight difficulty arose, which, however, was speedily obviated. All the couches were filled, but on examining them it was found that one of the sick persons had just been released from his sufferings, and the body being removed, the piper was allowed to take its place. Leonard remained by him for a short time, but, overpowered by the pestilential effluvia, and the sight of so many miserable objects, he was compelled to seek the open air. Returning, however, shortly afterwards, he found the piper in a very perturbed state. On hearing Leonard's voice he appeared greatly relieved, and, taking his gown from beneath his pillow, gave it to him, and desired him to unrip a part of the garment, in which it was evident something was sewn. The apprentice complied, and a small packet dropped forth.
"Take it," said the piper; "and if I die,—and Nizza should happily be preserved from her ravisher, give it her. But not otherwise—not otherwise. Implore her to forgive me—to pity me."
"Forgive you—her father?" cried Leonard, in astonishment.
"That packet will explain all," replied the piper in a troubled tone. "You promised to take charge of poor Bell," he added, drawing forth the little animal, who had crept to the foot of the bed, "here she is. Farewell! my faithful friend," he added, pressing his rough lips to her forehead, while she whined piteously, as if beseeching him to allow her to remain; "farewell for ever."
"Not for ever, I trust," replied Leonard, taking her gently from him.
"And now you had better go," said the piper. "Return, if you can, to-morrow."
"I will,—I will," replied Leonard; and he hurried out of the room.
He was followed to the door by the young chirurgeon—the same who had accompanied Mr. Bloundel during his inspection of the pest-house,—and he inquired of him if he thought the piper's case utterly hopeless.
"Not utterly so," replied the young man. "I shall be able to speak more positively in a few hours. At present, I think, with care and attention, there is a chance of his recovery."
Much comforted by this assurance, Leonard departed, and afraid to put Bell to the ground lest she should run back to her master, he continued to carry her, and endeavoured to attach her to him by caresses and endearments. The little animal showed her sense of his kindness by licking his hands, but she still remained inconsolable, and ever and anon struggled to get free. Making the best of his way to Wood-street, he entered the hutch, and placing a little straw in one corner for Bell, threw himself on a bench and dropped asleep. At six o'clock he was awakened by the barking of the dog, and opening the door beheld Dallison. The grocer was at the window above, and about to let down a basket of provisions to them. To Leonard's eager inquiries after Amabel, Mr. Bloundel replied by a melancholy shake of the head, and soon afterwards withdrew. With a sad heart, the apprentice then broke his fast,—not forgetting at the same time the wants of his little companion,—and finding he was not required by his master, he proceeded to Doctor Hodges' residence. He was fortunate enough to find the friendly physician at home, and, after relating to him what had occurred, committed the packet to his custody.
"It will be safer in your keeping than mine," he said; "and if anything should happen to me, you will, I am sure, observe the wishes of the poor piper."
"Rely upon it, I will," replied Hodges. "I am sorry to tell you I have been misled as to the clue I fancied I had obtained to Nizza's retreat. We are as far from the mark as ever."
"Might not the real name of the villain who has assumed the name of Sir Paul Parravicin be ascertained from the Earl of Rochester?" rejoined Leonard.
"So I thought," replied Hodges; "and I made the attempt yesterday, but it failed. I was at Whitehall, and finding the earl in the king's presence, suddenly asked him where I could find his friend Sir Paul Parravicin. He looked surprised at the question, glanced significantly at the monarch, and then carelessly answered that he knew no such person."
"A strange idea crosses me," cried Leonard. "Can it be the king who has assumed this disguise?"
"At one time I suspected as much," rejoined Hodges; "but setting aside your description of the person, which does not tally with that of Charles, I am satisfied from other circumstances it is not so. After all, I should not wonder if poor Bell," smoothing her long silky ears as she lay in the apprentice's arms, "should help us to discover her mistress. And now," he added, "I shall go to Wood-street to inquire after Amabel, and will then accompany you to the pest-house. From what you tell me the young chirurgeon said of the piper, I do not despair of his recovery."
"Poor as his chance may appear, it is better, I fear, than Amabel's," sighed the apprentice.
"Ah!" exclaimed Hodges, in a sorrowful tone, "hers is slight indeed."
And perceiving that the apprentice was greatly moved, he waited for a moment till he had recovered himself, and then, motioning him to follow him, they quitted the house together.
On reaching Mr. Bloundel's habitation, Leonard pulled the cord in the hutch, and the grocer appeared at the window.
"My daughter has not left her bed this morning," he said, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, "and I fear she is much worse. My wife is with her. It would be a great satisfaction to me if you would see her again."
After some little hesitation, Hodges assented, and was drawn up as before. He returned in about half an hour, and his grave countenance convinced Leonard that his worst anticipations were correct. He therefore forbore to question him, and they walked towards Cripplegate in silence.
On emerging into the fields, Hodges observed to his companion, "It is strange that I who daily witness such dreadful suffering should be pained by the gradual and easy decline of Amabel. But so it is. Her case touches me more than the worst I have seen of the plague."
"I can easily account for the feeling," groaned Leonard.
"I am happy to say I have prevailed on her, if she does not improve in a short time,—and there is not the slightest chance of it,—to try the effect of a removal to the country. Her father also consents to the plan."
"I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard. "But whither will she go, and who will watch over her?"
"That is not yet settled," rejoined Hodges.
"Oh! that I might be permitted to undertake the office!" cried Leonard, passionately.
"Restrain yourself," said Hodges, in a tone of slight rebuke. "Fitting attendance will be found, if needed."
The conversation then dropped, and they walked briskly forward. They were now within a short distance of the pest-house, and Leonard, hearing footsteps behind him, turned and beheld a closed litter, borne by two stout porters, and evidently containing a plague-patient. He stepped aside to let it pass, when Bell, suddenly pricking her ears, uttered a singular cry, and bursting from him, flew after the litter, leaping against it and barking joyfully. The porters, who were proceeding at a quick pace, tried to drive her away, but without effect, and she continued her cries until they reached the gates of the pest-house. In vain Leonard whistled to her, and called her back. She paid no attention whatever to him.
"I almost begin to fear," said Hodges, unable to repress a shudder, "that the poor animal will, indeed, be the means of discovering for us the object of our search."
"I understand what you mean," rejoined Leonard, "and am of the same opinion as yourself. Heaven grant we may be mistaken!"
And as he spoke, he ran forward, and, followed by Hodges, reached the pest-house just as the litter was taken into it.
"Silence that accursed dog," cried one of the porters, "and bid a nurse attend us. We have a patient for the women's ward."
"Let me see her," cried Hodges. "I am a physician."
"Readily, sir," replied the porter. "It is almost over with her, poor soul! It would have saved time and trouble to take her to the plague-pit at once. She cannot last many hours. Curse the dog! Will it never cease howling?"
Leonard here seized Bell, fearing she might do some mischief, and with a sad foreboding beheld the man draw back the curtains of the litter. His fears proved well founded. There, stretched upon the couch, with her dark hair unbound, and flowing in wild disorder over her neck, lay Nizza Macascree. The ghastly paleness of her face could not, however, entirely rob it of its beauty, and her dark eyes were glazed and lustreless. At the sight of her mistress, poor Bell uttered so piteous a cry, that Leonard, moved by compassion, placed her on the pillow beside her, and the sagacious animal did not attempt to approach nearer, but merely licked her cheek. Roused by the touch, Nizza turned to see what was near her, and recognising the animal, made a movement to strain her to her bosom, but the pain she endured was so intense that she sank back with a deep groan.
"From whom did you receive this young woman?" demanded Hodges, of one of the porters.
"She was brought to us by two richly-attired lacqueys," replied the man, "in this very litter. They paid us to carry her here without loss of time."
"You have an idea whose servants they were?" pursued Hodges.
"Not the least," replied the fellow; "but I should judge, from the richness of their dress, that they belonged to some nobleman."
"Did they belong to the royal household?" inquired Leonard.
"No, no," rejoined the man. "I am certain as to that."
"The poor girl shall not remain here," observed Hodges, to the apprentice. "You must convey her to my residence in Great Knightrider-street," he added, to the porters.
"We will convey her wherever you please," replied the men, "if we are paid for our trouble."
And they were about to close the curtains, when Nizza, having caught sight of the apprentice, slightly raised herself, and cried, in a voice of the utmost anxiety, "Is that you, Leonard?"
"It is," he replied, approaching her.
"Then I shall die happy, since I have seen you once more," she said.
"Oh, do not stay near me. You may catch the infection."
"Nizza," said Leonard, disregarding the caution, and breathing the words in her ear; "allay my fears by a word. You have not fallen a victim to the villain who carried you away?"
"I have not, Leonard," she replied, solemnly, "I resisted his importunities, his threats, his violence, and would have slain myself rather than have yielded to him. The plague, at length, came to my rescue, and I have reason to be grateful to it; for it has not only delivered me from him, but has brought me to you."
"I must now impose silence upon you," interposed Hodges, laying his finger on his lips; "further conversation will be hurtful."
"One question more, and I have done," replied Nizza. "How came Bell with you—and where is my father? Nothing has happened to him?" she continued, observing Leonard's countenance change. "Speak! do not keep me in suspense. Your silence fills me with apprehension. Speak, I implore you. He is dead?"
"No," replied Leonard, "he is not dead—but he is an inmate of this place."
"Ah!" exclaimed Nizza, falling back senseless upon the pillow.
And in this state she was conveyed with the greatest expedition to the doctor's residence.
Leonard only tarried to visit the piper, whom he found slightly delirious, and unable to hold any conversation with him, and promising to return in the evening, he set out after the litter. Nizza was placed in the best apartment of the doctor's house, and attended by an experienced and trustworthy nurse. But Hodges positively refused to let Leonard see her again, affirming that the excitement was too much for her, and might militate against the chance of her recovery.
"I am not without hopes of bringing her through," he said, "and though it will be a severe struggle, yet, as she has youth and a good constitution on her side, I do not despair. If she herself would second me, I should be yet more confident."
"How mean you?" inquired Leonard.
"I think if she thought life worth a struggle—if, in short, she believed you would return her attachment, she would rally," answered Hodges.
"I cannot consent to deceive her thus," rejoined Leonard, sadly. "My heart is fixed elsewhere."
"Your heart is fixed upon one who will soon be in her grave," replied the doctor.
"And with her my affections will be buried," rejoined Leonard, turning away to hide his tears.
So well was the doctor's solicitude rewarded, that three days after Nizza had come under his care, he pronounced her out of danger. But the violence of the attack left her so weak and exhausted, that he still would not allow an interview to take place between her and Leonard. During all this time Bell never left her side, and her presence was an inexpressible comfort to her. The piper, too, was slowly recovering, and Leonard, who daily visited him, was glad to learn from the young chirurgeon that he would be able to leave the pest-house shortly. Having ascertained from Leonard that his daughter was under the care of Doctor Hodges, and likely to do well, the piper begged so earnestly that the packet might not be delivered to her, that, after some consultation with Hodges, Leonard restored it to him. He was delighted to get it back, felt it carefully over to ascertain that the seals were unbroken, and satisfied that all was safe, had it again sewn up in his gown, which he placed under his pillow.
"I would rather disclose the secret to her by word of mouth than in any other way," he said.
Leonard felt doubtful whether the secret would now be disclosed at all, but he made no remark.
Night was drawing on as he quitted the pest-house, and he determined to take this opportunity of visiting the great plague-pit, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant, in a line with the church of All-Hallows-in-the-Wall, and he accordingly proceeded in that direction. The pit which he was about to visit was about forty feet long, twenty wide, and the like number deep. Into this tremendous chasm the dead were promiscuously thrown, without regard to sex or condition, generally stripped of their clothing, and covered with a slight layer of earth and quick lime.
The sun was setting as Leonard walked towards this dismal place, and he thought he had never witnessed so magnificent a sight. Indeed, it was remarked that at this fatal season the sunsets were unusually splendid. The glorious orb sank slowly behind Saint Paul's, which formed a prominent object in the view from the fields, and threw out its central tower, its massive roof, and the two lesser towers flanking the portico, into strong relief. Leonard gazed at the mighty fabric, which seemed dilated to twice its size by this light, and wondered whether it was possible that it could ever be destroyed, as predicted by Solomon Eagle.
Long after the sun had set, the sky was stained with crimson, and the grey walls of the city were tinged with rosy radiance. The heat was intense, and Leonard, to cool himself, sat down in the thick grass—for, though the crops were ready for the scythe, no mowers could be found—and, gazing upwards, strove to mount in spirit from the tainted earth towards heaven. After a while he arose, and proceeded towards the plague-pit. The grass was trampled down near it, and there were marks of frequent cart-wheels upon the sod. Great heaps of soil, thrown out of the excavation, lay on either side. Holding a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to his face, Leonard ventured to the brink of the pit. But even this precaution could not counteract the horrible effluvia arising from it. It was more than half filled with dead bodies; and through the putrid and heaving mass many disjointed limbs and ghastly faces could be discerned, the long hair of women and the tiny arms of children appearing on the surface. It was a horrible sight—so horrible, that it possessed a fascination peculiar to itself, and, in spite of his loathing, Leonard lingered to gaze at it. Strange and fantastic thoughts possessed him. He fancied that the legs and arms moved—that the eyes of some of the corpses opened and glared at him—and that the whole rotting mass was endowed with animation. So appalled was he by this idea that he turned away, and at that moment beheld a vehicle approaching. It was the dead-cart, charged with a heavy load to increase the already redundant heap.
The same inexplicable and irresistible feelings of curiosity that induced Leonard to continue gazing upon the loathly objects in the pit, now prompted him to stay and see what would ensue. Two persons were with the cart, and one of them, to Leonard's infinite surprise and disgust, proved to be Chowles. He had no time, however, for the expression of any sentiment, for the cart halted at a little distance from him, when its conductors, turning it round, backed it towards the edge of the pit. The horse was then taken out, and Chowles calling to Leonard, the latter involuntarily knelt down to guide its descent, while the other assistant, who had proceeded to the further side of the chasm, threw the light of a lantern full upon the grisly load, which was thus shot into the gulf below.
Shovelling a sufficient quantity of earth and lime into the pit to cover the bodies, Chowles and his companion departed, leaving Leonard alone. He continued there a few moments longer, and was about to follow them, when a prolonged and piercing cry smote his ear; and, looking in the direction of the sound, he perceived a figure running with great swiftness towards the pit. As no pursuers appeared, Leonard could scarcely doubt that this was one of the distracted persons he had heard of, who, in the frenzy produced by the intolerable anguish of their sores, would often rush to the plague-pit and bury themselves, and he therefore resolved, if possible, to prevent the fatal attempt. Accordingly, he placed himself in the way of the runner, and endeavoured, with outstretched arms, to stop him. But the latter dashed him aside with great violence, and hurrying to the brink of the pit, uttered a fearful cry, and exclaiming, "She is here! she is here!—I shall find her amongst them!"—flung himself into the abyss.
As soon as he could shake off the horror inspired by this dreadful action, Leonard ran to the pit, and, gazing into it, beheld him by the imperfect light struggling in the horrible mass in which he was partially immersed. The frenzied man had now, however, begun to repent his rashness, and cried out for aid. But this Leonard found it impossible to afford him; and, seeing he must speedily perish if left to himself, he ran after the dead-cart, and overtaking it just as it reached Moor-gate, informed Chowles what had happened, and begged him to return.
"There will be no use in helping him out," rejoined Chowles, in a tone of indifference. "We shall have to take him back in a couple of hours. No, no—let him remain where he is. There is scarcely a night that some crazy being does not destroy himself in the same way. We never concern ourselves about such persons except to strip them of their apparel."
"Unfeeling wretch!" cried Leonard, unable to restrain his indignation.
"Give me your fork, and I will pull him out myself."
Instead of surrendering the implement, Chowles flourished it over his head with the intention of striking the apprentice, but the latter nimbly avoided the blow, and snatching it from his grasp, ran back to the plague-pit. He was followed by Chowles and the burier, who threatened him with loud oaths. Regardless of their menaces, Leonard fixed the hook in the dress of the struggling man, and exerting all his strength, drew him out of the abyss. He had just lodged him in safety on the brink when Chowles and his companion came up.
"Keep off!" cried Leonard, brandishing his fork as he spoke; "you shall neither commit robbery nor murder here. If you will assist this unfortunate gentleman, I have no doubt you will be well rewarded. If not, get hence, or advance at your peril."
"Well," returned Chowles, who began to fancy something might be made of the matter, "if you think we should be rewarded, we would convey the gentleman back to his own home provided we can ascertain where it is. But I am afraid he may die on the way."
"In that case you can apply to his friends," rejoined Leonard. "He must not be abandoned thus."
"First, let us know who he is," returned Chowles. "Is he able to speak?"
"I know not," answered Leonard. "Bring the lantern this way, and let us examine his countenance."
Chowles complied, and held the light over the unfortunate person. His attire was rich, but in great disorder, and sullied by the loathsome mass in which he had been plunged. He was in the flower of youth, and his features must have been remarkable for their grace and beauty, but they were now of a livid hue, and swollen and distorted by pain. Still Leonard recognised them.
"Gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed. "It is Sir Paul Parravicin."
"Sir Paul Parravicin!" echoed Chowles. "By all that's wonderful, so it is! Here is a lucky chance! Bring the dead-cart hither, Jonas—quick, quick! I shall put him under the care of Judith Malmayns."
And the burier hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.
"Had I known who it was," exclaimed Leonard, gazing with abhorrence at the miserable object before him, "I would have left him to die the death he so richly merits!"
A deep groan broke from the sufferer.
"Have no fear, Sir Paul," said Chowles. "You are in good hands. Every care shall be taken of you, and you shall be cured by Judith Malmayns."
"She shall not come near me," rejoined Parravicin, faintly. "You will take care of me?" he added in an imploring tone, to Leonard.
"You appeal in vain to me," rejoined the apprentice, sternly. "You are justly punished for your treatment of Nizza Macascree."
"I am—I am," groaned Parravicin, "but she will be speedily avenged. I shall soon join her in that pit."
"She is not there," replied Leonard, bitterly, "She is fast recovering from the plague."
"Is she not dead?" demanded Parravicin, with frightful eagerness. "I was told she was thrown into that horrible chasm."
"You were deceived," replied Leonard. "She was taken to the pest-house by your orders, and would have perished if she had not found a friend to aid her. She is now out of danger."
"Then I no longer desire to die," cried Parravicin, desperately. "I will live—live."
"Do not delude yourself," replied Leonard, coldly; "you have little chance of recovery, and should employ the short time left you in praying to Heaven for forgiveness of your sins."
"Tush!" exclaimed Parravicin, fiercely, "I shall not weary Heaven with ineffectual supplications. I well know I am past all forgiveness. No," he added, with a fearful imprecation, "since Nizza is alive, I will not die."
"Right, Sir Paul, right," rejoined Chowles; "put a bold face on it, and I will answer for it you will get over the attack. Have no fear of Judith Malmayns," he added, in a significant tone. "However she may treat others, she will cure you."
"I will make it worth her while to do so," rejoined Parravicin.
"Here is the cart," cried Chowles, seeing the vehicle approach. "I will take you in the first place to Saint Paul's. Judith must see you as soon as possible."
"Take me where you please," rejoined Parravicin, faintly; "and remember what I have said. If I die, the nurse will get nothing—if I am cured, she shall be proportionately rewarded."
"I will not forget it," replied Chowles. And with the help of Jonas he placed the knight carefully in the cart. "You need not trouble yourself further about him," he added to Leonard.
"Before be quits this place I must know who he is," rejoined the latter, placing himself at the horse's head.
"You know his name as well as I do," replied Chowles.
"Parravicin is not his real name," rejoined Leonard.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Chowles, "this is news to me. But no matter who he is, he is rich enough to pay well. So stand aside, and let us go. We have no time to waste in further parleying."
"I will not move till my question is answered," replied Leonard.
"We will see to that," said Jonas, approaching him behind, and dealing him so severe a blow on the head that he stretched him senseless on the ground? "Shall we throw him into the pit?" he added to Chowles.
The latter hesitated for a moment, and then said, "No, no, it is not worth while. It may bring us into trouble. We have no time to lose." And they then put the cart in motion, and took the way to Saint Paul's.
On coming to himself, Leonard had some difficulty in recalling what had happened; and when the whole train of circumstances rushed upon his mind, he congratulated himself that he had escaped further injury. "When I think of the hands I have been placed in," he murmured, "I cannot but be grateful that they did not throw me into the pit, where no discovery could have been made as to how I came to an end. But I will not rest till I have ascertained the name and rank of Nizza's persecutor. I have no doubt they have taken him to Saint Paul's, and will proceed thither at once."
