Some hours after his parting with Lady Sunderland, Mr. Sidney left a modest house in Greg Street, Soho Fields, in company with a common tarpaulin, whose rough clothes were in strong contrast to the rich appointments of the notable beau he accompanied.
It was a fine night, but cloudy. The two men proceeded in silence towards Gerrard Street, the sailor with his hands in his pockets and Mr. Sidney swinging his cane.
Every house they passed had the seven candles in the windows, and the sound of bells and shouting was as persistent as it had been in the drawing-room of Sunderland House; the street was empty save for a few wandering link-boys and beggars.
As they, walking rapidly and steadily, approached St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the feeble rays of the oil-lamps over every tenth door, that only served to illuminate the signs and cast great shadows from the passers-by, were absorbed in a red glare that touched the brick fronts of the precise houses with a deep glow.
"A bonfire," remarked Mr. Sidney.
The tarpaulin answered in the accents of a gentleman.
"A pope-burning—had we not best take another way?"
As Mr. Sidney hesitated the other added, with a laugh—
"After all, is it not a good omen? Let us see this martyrdom," and he pressed into the confines of the crowd gathered round an enormous bonfire, which blazed in front of the church steps.
Mr. Sidney followed, and the two found themselves absorbed into the multitude of apprentices, shopkeepers, clerks, and citizens of all descriptions, who were engaged in celebrating the acquittal of the bishops by burning His Holiness in effigy.