Wallace was the first of the family on whom the pestilence had seized. Thetford had fled from his habitation. Perhaps as a father and husband,
to shun the danger attending his stay was the injunction of his duty. It
was questionless the conduct which selfish regards would dictate. Wallace was left to perish alone; or, perhaps, (which, indeed, was a
supposition somewhat justified by appearances,) he had been left to the
tendance of mercenary wretches; by whom, at this desperate moment, he
had been abandoned. I was not mindless of the possibility that these forebodings, specious
as they were, might be false. The dying person might be some other than
Wallace. The whispers of my hope were, indeed, faint; but they, at
least, prompted me to snatch a look at the expiring man. For this
purpose I advanced and thrust my head within the curtain. CHAPTER XVI. The features of one whom I had seen so transiently as Wallace may be
imagined to be not easily recognised, especially when those features
were tremulous and deathful. Here, however, the differences were too
conspicuous to mislead me. I beheld one in whom I could recollect none
that bore resemblance. Though ghastly and livid, the traces of
intelligence and beauty were undefaced. The life of Wallace was of more
value to a feeble individual; but surely the being that was stretched
before me, and who was hastening to his last breath, was precious to
thousands. Was he not one in whose place I would willingly have died? The offering
was too late. His extremities were already cold. A vapour, noisome and
contagious, hovered over him. The flutterings of his pulse had ceased. His existence was about to close amidst convulsion and pangs. I withdrew my gaze from this object, and walked to a table. I was nearly
unconscious of my movements. My thoughts were occupied with
contemplations of the train of horrors and disasters that pursue the
race of man. My musings were quickly interrupted by the sight of a small
cabinet, the hinges of which were broken and the lid half raised. In the
present state of my thoughts, I was prone to suspect the worst. Here
were traces of pillage. Some casual or mercenary attendant had not only
contributed to hasten the death of the patient, but had rifled his
property and fled. This suspicion would, perhaps, have yielded to mature reflections, if I
had been suffered to reflect. A moment scarcely elapsed, when some
appearance in the mirror, which hung over the table, called my
attention. It was a human figure. Nothing could be briefer than the
glance that I fixed upon this apparition; yet there was room enough for
the vague conception to suggest itself, that the dying man had started
from his bed and was approaching me. This belief was, at the same
instant, confuted, by the survey of his form and garb. One eye, a scar
upon his cheek, a tawny skin, a form grotesquely misproportioned, brawny
as Hercules, and habited in livery, composed, as it were, the parts of
one view. To perceive, to fear, and to confront this apparition were blended into
one sentiment. I turned towards him with the swiftness of lightning; but
my speed was useless to my safety. A blow upon my temple was succeeded
by an utter oblivion of thought and of feeling. I sunk upon the floor
prostrate and senseless. My insensibility might be mistaken by observers for death, yet some part
of this interval was haunted by a fearful dream. I conceived myself
lying on the brink of a pit, whose bottom the eye could not reach. My
hands and legs were fettered, so as to disable me from resisting two
grim and gigantic figures who stooped to lift me from the earth. Their
purpose, methought, was to cast me into this abyss. My terrors were
unspeakable, and I struggled with such force, that my bonds snapped and
I found myself at liberty. At this moment my senses returned, and I
opened my eyes. The memory of recent events was, for a time, effaced by my visionary
horrors. I was conscious of transition from one state of being to
another; but my imagination was still filled with images of danger. The
bottomless gulf and my gigantic persecutors were still dreaded. I looked
up with eagerness. Beside me I discovered three figures, whose character
or office was explained by a coffin of pine boards which lay upon the
floor. One stood with hammer and nails in his hand, as ready to replace
and fasten the lid of the coffin as soon as its burden should be
received. I attempted to rise from the floor, but my head was dizzy and my sight
confused. Perceiving me revive, one of the men assisted me to regain my
feet. The mist and confusion presently vanished, so as to allow me to
stand unsupported and to move. I once more gazed at my attendants, and
recognised the three men whom I had met in High Street, and whose
conversation I have mentioned that I overheard. I looked again upon the
coffin. A wavering recollection of the incidents that led me hither, and
of the stunning blow which I had received, occurred to me. I saw into
what error appearances had misled these men, and shuddered to reflect by
what hairbreadth means I had escaped being buried alive. Before the men had time to interrogate me, or to comment upon my
situation, one entered the apartment, whose habit and mien tended to
encourage me. The stranger was characterized by an aspect full of
composure and benignity, a face in which the serious lines of age were
blended with the ruddiness and smoothness of youth, and a garb that
bespoke that religious profession with whose benevolent doctrines the
example of Hadwin had rendered me familiar. On observing me on my feet, he betrayed marks of surprise and
satisfaction. He addressed me in a tone of mildness:--

"Young man," said he, "what is thy condition? Art thou sick? If thou
art, thou must consent to receive the best treatment which the times
will afford. These men will convey thee to the hospital at Bush Hill." The mention of that contagious and abhorred receptacle inspired me with
some degree of energy. "No," said I, "I am not sick; a violent blow
reduced me to this situation. I shall presently recover strength enough
to leave this spot without assistance." He looked at me with an incredulous but compassionate air:--"I fear thou
dost deceive thyself or me. The necessity of going to the hospital is
much to be regretted, but, on the whole, it is best. Perhaps, indeed,
thou hast kindred or friends who will take care of thee?" "No," said I; "neither kindred nor friends. I am a stranger in the city. I do not even know a single being." "Alas!" returned the stranger, with a sigh, "thy state is sorrowful. But how camest thou hither?" continued he, looking around him; "and
whence comest thou?" "I came from the country. I reached the city a few hours ago. I was in
search of a friend who lived in this house." "Thy undertaking was strangely hazardous and rash; but who is the friend
thou seekest? Was it he who died in that bed, and whose corpse has just
been removed?"