The woman shook her off, and shrank.
"Get you gone!" she cried. "My little child will sicken if you breathe on her!"
The others said the same, some less harshly, some more harshly. Twice or thrice they added:
"You beg of us, and send the jewels back? Go and be wise. Make your harvest of gold whilst you can. Reap while you may in the yellow fields with the sharp, sure sickle of youth!"
Not one among them braved the peril of a touch of pity; not one among them asked the story of her woe; and when the little children ran to her, their mothers plucked them back, and cried,—
"Art mad? She is plague-stricken."
She went from them in silence, and left them, and passed out into the open air.
In all this labyrinth of roofs, in all these human herds, she yet thought, "Surely there must be some who pity?"
For even yet she was so young; and even yet she knew the world so little.
She went out into the streets.