“Ah! is it thou, good brother Field?” cried the preacher, greeting him cordially; “thou art welcome to a troublous place. Doth the work prosper, say you? Alas! brother, where is it that we can do other than echo that lamentation of the prophet: ‘Who hath believed my report?’”
“Nay, but let us hope for better things,” said the stouter-hearted Puritan; “surely we may look that many brands shall be plucked from this burning. The people are earnest, as I hear, in seeking the Word and prayer, and I wot well these have been blessed symptoms, brother Vincent, since it was said of Saul, the persecutor in old times, ‘Behold he prayeth.’”
“Fear—fear, only fear,” answered Vincent, despondingly, with a nervous twitching of his mouth; “fear—not of the Lord, brother, but of the Plague.”
“And who shall say when the twain may join?” said Field. “Ah! brother, think’st thou it is the death they fear, and not the after judgment, and yonder wondrous life beyond? An it were not for these, trust me, the material grave would lose its terrors.”
“And thou hast ventured thy child in this doomed city?” said Vincent, hurriedly. “I will not bid thee welcome, gentle Mistress Edith, for this is no place for thee. Know’st thou the very air is heavy with the pestilence? I marvel, Master Field, that thou broughtest thy daughter into this peril.”
“It is her own wayward will, not mine,” was the answer. “Now there is no way of amending it, we must have the issue with our Master in heaven. What do men say of the pestilence? Does it diminish or increase?”
“Diminish! think’st thou God’s judgment on iniquity passeth away so lightly? Nay, it increases hour by hour. It begins to advance eastward, as they tell me. Citizens are flying from the wealthiest houses in the city; the magistrates are concerting severe means of prevention, binding the flame with flaxen band. Men talk fearfully of some plan for shutting up the infected houses; yet who can tell? What are such precautions as these against the fierce flame of the Almighty’s anger?”
“Yet it is right to use all means,” said Field, mildly “and Edith and I are scarce taking the best for our own comfort after our journey, and we keep you from your companion, Master Vincent.”
“A singular youth,” said the preacher, hurriedly, the twitching of his upper lip giving him, while he spoke, an unusual expression of melancholy earnestness, as he glanced at the young man, who stood respectfully out of hearing behind; “the enemy trieth him with strong delusions, persuading him that he hath committed the sin unto death. I have made him my special charge. He is like that young ruler whom the Lord loved; I hope well of the lad. I ask thee not to my lodging, brother Field, for the pestilence is near me. Good even, and peace and our Father’s presence be with you. I will see you again ere long.”
They passed on. Along the street, thrusting the very few passengers on the footpath aside in his precipitous career, a man thinly clad, with horror in his pale face and wild eyes, came dashing forward. They heard his cry indistinctly before he approached.