"Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack," said Sir James. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. Heigho!" "Now for it!" cried Jack, as the couple entered the room: "the coast's clear. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself.
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