"I see," said Stevens, shifting his rucksack. "It's most ingenious. But shouldn't you have sentries posted there by the gates?"
"We usually do," said Isral, puzzled. "I don't understand—" He broke off sharply as his eyes caught something. "Thundering heavens! The gate's open! Somebody's going to catch hell from the judges for this. Come on!" he shouted at the straggling column of men carrying, in a sort of palanquin cage, the live deer they had gone so far South to capture. "I can't understand it," he mused fretfully as he and Stevens and Markett ran on the double. They halted before the picketed gate and Markett wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?" she asked.
Stevens grimaced at the foul stench that drifted over the high palisade, and turned to Isral for an answer. The Heber had forced his face into lines of composure, but beneath his weather-beaten tan, his skin was white with shock. "Fever," he said, pushing open the gate. "But twice before it has come, and both times we were able to combat it. Now—look—" Hopelessly he stretched forth his hand, and Stevens turned his head.
There was a long street of neat little houses, log houses, punctuated here and there by little shops of artisans. At the end of the street was a meeting-hall on which, in wood contrasting with the rough, unfinished logs on the outside, was nailed the six-pointed star, tribal symbol of the Hebers. But the pottery wheels and grindstones and forges before the shops were untended, and there was no smoke of cooking from the neat little chimneys of the houses. Lying in the street, or half hidden in doorways, were drawn, gaunt figures, women, children and old people.
With a little cry of alarm, Markett bent over the form of a child and felt its pulse and skin. "Still alive," she said anxiously. "How do you combat this?"
"A kind of berry," replied Isral. "But there were none growing this year when we left. They were small and bitter."
"I know the general type," said Markett. "The bark does just as well, if you soak it in water. Have you any of the wood about?"
"Here," replied the Heber, pointing to a bush outside the gate. "This is the kind that grows the berries. And there are others in the forest." He turned to the bearers. "You!" he barked. "Go pull up every fever-bush you can find and bring it here. You, Samel, draw clean water from the Old Well and fill some tubs. Wash them first. You three, dig a trench. Some of our people are past any service save that."
"That settles it," broke in Stevens grimly. "You can't live here any longer."
"Why not, friend?" asked Isral, his eyes on the men who were carrying out his orders.