Pausing for a moment to gaze at the gorgeous sunset with a look of languid admiration, Sir Norman passed his arm through that of his friend, and they walked on at rather a rapid pace, in the direction of old London Bridge.

There were few people abroad, except the watchmen walking slowly up and down before the plague-stricken houses; but in every street they passed through they noticed huge piles of wood and coal heaped down the centre.
Smoking zealously they had walked on for a season in silence, when Ormiston ceased puffing for a moment, to inquire: "What are all these for?
This is a strange time, I should imagine, for bonfires." "They're not bonfires," said Sir Norman; "at least they are not intended for that; and if your head was not fuller of that masked Witch of Endor than common sense (for I believe she is nothing better than a witch), you could not have helped knowing.

The Lord Mayor of London has been inspired suddenly, with a notion, that if several thousand fires are kindled at once in the streets, it will purify the air, and check the pestilence; so when St.Paul's tolls the hour of midnight, all these piles are to be fired.

It will be a glorious illumination, no doubt; but as to its stopping the progress of the plague, I am afraid that it is altogether too good to be true." "Why should you doubt it?
The plague cannot last forever." "No.

But Lilly, the astrologer, who predicted its coming, also foretold that it would last for many months yet; and since one prophecy has come true, I see no reason why the other should not." "Except the simple one that there would be nobody left alive to take it.
All London will be lying in the plague-pits by that time." "A pleasant prospect; but a true one, I have no doubt.