"Pshaw!" cried the earl, "she acted by my directions. Take the chest away," he added to Judith.

"Has your lordship no further orders?" she rejoined, significantly.

"None whatever," he replied, with a frown.

"Before you go, give me the certificate," cried Amabel. "I must have it."

Judith pretended not to hear her. "Give it her," whispered the earl, "I will remove it when she falls asleep."

Nodding acquiescence, Judith took the parchment from her bosom, and returned with it to the bed. While this was passing, the earl walked towards the chest, and cast his eye over such of its contents as were scattered upon the floor. Judith watched him carefully, and when his back was turned, drew a small lancet, and affecting to arrange her dress, slightly punctured Amabel's neck. The pain was trifling, but the poor girl uttered a cry.

"What is the matter?" cried the earl, turning suddenly round.

"Nothing -- nothing," replied Judith; "a pin in my sleeve pricked her as I was fastening her cap, that was all. Her death is certain," she added to herself, "she is inoculated with the plague-venom."

She then went to the chest, and replacing everything within it, removed it, by the help of the Earl of Rochester, into the adjoining room. "I will send for it at midnight," she said.

"It shall be delivered to your messenger," rejoined the earl; "but you will answer for Chowles's secrecy?"

"I will," returned Judith, with a meaning smile. "But you may take my word for it you will not be troubled long with your wife. If I have any judgment respecting the plague, she is already infected."

"Indeed!" cried Rochester -- "then -- " but he checked himself, and added, "I do not believe it. Begone."

"He "does" believe it for all that," muttered Judith, as he slunk away.

Rochester returned to Amabel, and sat by her until she fell asleep, when he took the parchment from beneath the pillow where she had placed it. Examining it, he found it, as Judith had stated, a certificate of his marriage, signed by Mark Vincent, the clergyman who had officiated, and duly attested. Having carefully perused it, he held it towards the taper, with the intention of destroying it. As he was about to perpetrate this unworthy action, he looked towards the bed. The soft sweet smile that played upon the sleeper's features, turned him from his purpose. Placing the parchment in his doublet, he left the room, and summoning a female attendant, alleged some reason for his unexpected return, and ordered her to watch by the bedside of her mistress. Giving some further directions, he threw himself upon a couch and sought a few hours' repose. At daybreak, he repaired to Amabel's chamber, and finding her wrapped in a peaceful slumber, he commended her to the attendant, and departed.

On awaking, Amabel complained of an uneasy sensation on her neck, and the attendant examining the spot, found, to her great alarm, a small red pustule. Without making a single observation, she left the room, and despatched a messenger after the Earl of Rochester to acquaint him that the countess was attacked by the plague. Such was the terror inspired by this dread disorder, that the moment it was known that Amabel was attacked by it, the whole household, except an old woman, fled. This old woman, whose name was Batley, and who acted as the earl's housekeeper, took upon herself the office of nurse. Before evening, the poor sufferer, who had endured great agony during the whole of the day, became so much worse, that Mrs. Batley ran out in search of assistance. She met with a watchman, who told her that a famous apothecary, from Clerkenwell, named Sibbald, who was celebrated for the cures he had effected, had just entered a neighbouring house, and offered to await his coming forth, and send him to her. Thanking him, Mrs. Batley returned to the house, and presently afterwards, Sibbald made his appearance. His looks and person had become even more repulsive than formerly. He desired to be led to the patient, and on seeing her, shook his head. He examined the pustule, which had greatly increased in size, and turning away, muttered, "I can do nothing for her."

"At least make the attempt," implored Mrs. Batley. "She is the Countess of Rochester. You shall be well rewarded -- and if you cure her, the earl will make your fortune."

"If his lordship would change stations with me, I could not cure her," replied Sibbald. "Let me look at her again," he added, examining the pustule. "There is a strange appearance about this tumour. Has Judith Malmayns attended her?"

"She was here yesterday," replied Mrs. Batley.

"I thought so," he muttered. "I repeat it is all over with her." And he turned to depart.

"Do not leave her thus, in pity do not!" cried the old woman, detaining him. "Make some effort to save her. My lord loves her to distraction, and will abundantly reward you."

"All I can do is to give her something to allay the pain," returned Sibbald. And drawing a small phial from his doublet, he poured its contents into a glass, and administered it to the patient.

"That will throw her into a slumber," he said, "and when she wakes, she will be without pain. But her end will be not far off."

Mrs. Batley took a purse from a drawer in one of the cabinets, and gave it to the apothecary, who bowed and retired. As he had foretold, Amabel fell into a heavy lethargy, which continued during the whole of the night. Mrs. Batley, who had never left her, noticed that an extraordinary and fearful change had taken place in her countenance, and she could not doubt that the apothecary's prediction would be realized. The tumour had increased in size, and was surrounded by a dusky brown circle, which she knew to be a bad sign. The sufferer's eyes, when she opened them, and gazed around, had a dim and glazed look. But she was perfectly calm and composed, and, as had been prognosticated, free from pain. She had, also, fully regained her faculties, and seemed quite aware of her dangerous situation.