While he stood contemplating it in perplexity, a watchman, on guard before another plague-stricken house, advanced and informed him that the whole family had perished of the disease, and that the landlord himself, the last survivor, had been carried off not twenty minutes before to the plague-pit.
"But," added the man, seeing Sir Norman's look of annoyance, and being informed what he wanted, "there are two or three horses around there in the stable, and you may as well help yourself, for if you don't take them, somebody else will." This philosophic logic struck Sir Norman as being so extremely reasonable, that without more ado he stepped round to the stables and selected the best it contained.

Before proceeding on his journey, it occurred to him that, having been handling a plague-patient, it would be a good thing to get his clothes fumigated; so he stepped into an apothecary's store for that purpose, and provided himself also with a bottle of aromatic vinegar.

Thus prepared for the worst, Sir Norman sprang on his horse like a second Don Quixote striding his good steed Rozinante, and sallied forth in quest of adventures.

These, for a short time, were of rather a dismal character; for, hearing the noise of a horse's hoofs in the silent streets at that hour of the night, the people opened their doors as he passed by, thinking it the pest-cart, and brought forth many a miserable victim of the pestilence.

Averting his head from the revolting spectacles, Sir Norman held the bottle of vinegar to his nostrils, and rode rapidly till he reached Newgate.