There were
few people abroad, except the watchmen walking slowly up and down
before the plague-stricken houses; but in every street they
passed through they noticed huge piles of wood and coal heaped
down the centre. Smoking zealously they had walked on for a
season in silence, when Ormiston ceased puffing for a moment, to
inquire:
"What are all these for? This is a strange time, I should
imagine, for bonfires."
"They're not bonfires," said Sir Norman; "at least they are not
intended for that; and if your head was not fuller of that masked
Witch of Endor than common sense (for I believe she is nothing
better than a witch), you could not have helped knowing. The
Lord Mayor of London has been inspired suddenly, with a notion,
that if several thousand fires are kindled at once in the
streets, it will purify the air, and check the pestilence; so
when St. Paul's tolls the hour of midnight, all these piles are
to be fired. It will be a glorious illumination, no doubt; but
as to its stopping the progress of the plague, I am afraid that
it is altogether too good to be true."
"Why should you doubt it? The plague cannot last forever.
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