'Cease, woman, and go to your daughter, lest she be dead before you come.'
And stooping, he touched the man upon the shoulder, saying:
'Rise!'
And the man stood up, and the Stranger said to him:
'Haste, and go to your daughter, who calls for you continually.'
And the man and the woman went away together, without a word.
CHAPTER VII
[IN PICCADILLY]
It was past eleven. The people, streaming out of the theatres, poured into Piccadilly Circus. The night was fine, so that those on foot were disposed to take their time. The crowd was huge, its constituent parts people of all climes and countries, of all ranks and stations. To the unaccustomed eye the confusion was bewildering; omnibuses rolled heavily in every direction; hansom cabs made efforts to break through what, to the eyes of their sanguine drivers, seemed breaks in the line of traffic; carriages filled with persons in evening-dress made such haste as they could. The pavements were crowded almost to the point of danger; even in the roadway foot-passengers passed hither and thither amidst the throng of vehicles, while on every side vendors of evening papers pushed and scrambled, shouting out, with stentorian lungs, what wares they had to sell.
The papers met with a brisk demand. Strange tales were told in them. Readers were uncertain as to the light in which they ought to be regarded; editors were themselves in doubt as to the manner in which it would be proper to set them forth. Some wrote in a strain which was intended to be frankly humorous; others told the stories baldly, leaving readers to take them as they chose; while still a third set did their best to dish them up in the shape of a wild sensation.