If by
any terrible ordinance he be forced to venture forth, he sees death
dangling from every sleeve, and as he creeps forward, he poises his
shuddering limbs between the imminent jacket that is stabbing at
his right elbow and the murderous pelisse that threatens to mow him
clean down as it sweeps along on his left. But most of all, he
dreads that which most of all he should love--the touch of a
woman's dress; for mothers and wives, hurrying forth on kindly
errands from the bedsides of the dying, go slouching along through
the streets more wilfully and less courteously than the men. For a
while it may be that the caution of the poor Levantine may enable
him to avoid contact, but sooner or later perhaps the dreaded
chance arrives; that bundle of linen, with the dark tearful eyes at
the top of it, that labours along with the voluptuous clumsiness of
Grisi--she has touched the poor Levantine with the hem of her
sleeve! From that dread moment his peace is gone; his mind, for
ever hanging upon the fatal touch, invites the blow which he fears.
He watches for the symptoms of plague so carefully, that sooner or
later they come in truth. The parched mouth is a sign--his mouth
is parched; the throbbing brain--his brain DOES throb; the rapid
pulse--he touches his own wrist (for he dares not ask counsel of
any man lest he be deserted), he touches his wrist, and feels how
his frighted blood goes galloping out of his heart; there is
nothing but the fatal swelling that is wanting to make his sad
conviction complete; immediately he has an odd feel under the arm--
no pain, but a little straining of the skin; he would to God it
were his fancy that were strong enough to give him that sensation.
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