They streamed and shifted and were never still.
They moved in and out, from no place to no place, but always moving, frantic and frenzied.
An old woman passed and with a shake of her head dropped two pennies into the upturned hat. Moisse hardly saw her. He saw only the palpitating swarms that were now facing, easily visible, through the gray white hair.
Some ventured down over the white ascetic face, crawling in every direction, traveling around the lips and over the closed eyes, emerging suddenly in thick streams from behind the covered ears and losing themselves under the ever moving beard.
And Moisse, his senses strained, thought he heard a noise—a faint crunching noise.
He listened.
The noise seemed to grow louder. He began to itch but he remained bending over the head. He could hear them, like a faraway murmur, a purring, uncertain sound.
“They’re shouting and groaning, crying out, weeping and laughing,” he mused. “It is life ... life....”
He looked up and down the crowded burning street with its frantic crowd, and smiled.
“Life,” he repeated....