“It is not so easy leaving it as you think, Mr. Ormiston; but I am to turn my back to it to-morrow for a brief period. You are aware, I suppose, that the court leaves before daybreak for Oxford.”
“I believe I have heard something of it—how long to remain?”
“Till Charles takes it into his head to come back again,” said the earl, familiarly, “which will probably be in a week or two. Look at that sky, all black and scarlet; and look at those people—I scarcely thought there were half the number left alive in London.”
“Even the sick have come out to-night,” said Ormiston. “Half the pest-stricken in the city have left their beds, full of newborn hope. One would think it were a carnival.”
“So it is—a carnival of death! I hope, Ormiston,” said the earl, looking at him with a light laugh, “the pretty little white fairy we rescued from the river is not one of the sick parading the streets.”
Ormiston looked grave.
“No, my lord, I think she is not. I left her safe and secure.”
“Who is she, Ormiston?” coaxed the earl, laughingly. “Pshaw, man! don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill! Tell me her name!”
“Her name is Leoline.”
“What else?”