But wait! One thickly muffled hand went out to some obscure eatable, slowly grasped it, dipped it in a sort of cup, then, still more slowly, brought it to her lips.
Yes. She was alive; for she munched, calmly and dispassionately.
The sight impressed me. It was like Fate; or an ancient priestess performing mysterious rites. Clotho would look like this, if Clotho would munch instead of spin.
Meantime the inevitable butcher’s boy had joined me. Two of them, indeed, stood at my side, curious to know what interested the vreemdeling.
The old lady never winced under the scrutiny, but put forth her hand again for another shell.
WHAT IS TREK?
There was a book-stall near, but nobody at it, as far as I could see. The whole street sounded hollow; and everything dripped. It made me shiver to look at the stone-pillars, oozy and moist, with condensed sea-fog trickling down. The glaring street-lamps hardly lit up the scene; but they showed the damp. Polyphemus gave a distant whoop, as if it were his last: and the Spectre munched. She hadn’t once looked up.
It all felt like a dream—except for the butchers’ boys.
“Wat doet ze—die oude mejuffrouw?” I enquired.
“Ze zit te eten,” was the prompt reply.