Edith looked up. Upon the house at whose door they were standing, appeared the terrific red cross, and solemn supplication, “Lord have mercy upon us,” of which they had heard so much as the sign of those places shut up, infected with the plague. It was no longer fear but certainty: the pestilence had come!
Near the door, sullenly reserved and silent, stood the man appointed to watch. Edith perceived, as she recoiled from its vicinity in terror, that it was Ralph Tennison.
“Who is it, Ralph?” she asked.
“Speed ye away from this, Mistress Edith,” said the man hastily; “wherefore should ye be in peril more than ye need? It is Phœbe Turner, that came yestermorn from Westminster; she has brought it into the midst of us. But haste ye home, Mistress Edith, I say.”
It was indeed the house which Edith had left the day before, with such a thrill of fear.
“And why are you here, Ralph?” she said. “For the little children’s sake, go home.”
“Better earn honest wages than live on good folks’ charity, when there’s enow widows and helpless to take it all,” said Ralph; “and better die like a man, doing work while there’s breath in me, than starve yonder idle like a dog. I’m watchman here, Mistress Edith, and here I must needs stay, die or live.”
“But the children, Ralph?” said Edith.
The man’s strong features moved convulsively.
“They must take their chance with the rest,” he said, with a stern composure; “they can but die—and God knows who will be left, child or grown man, afore all is done!”