“Don’t they carry at all times?” inquired Tabbard.
“Nay, only after sundown and just before sunup.”
“The plague must be growing worse,” remarked Tabbard, for the moment longing for the fresh, sweet air of Kent, and heartily wishing that he was out of that foggy street, which had suddenly grown as melancholy as a church-yard of new-made graves. He almost forgot to limp, or lean heavily on the constable as they reached the opposite walk.
“God save you, sir. It is breathing in every ward both north and south of Holborn, Cheapside and Fenchurch, and as far west as Gray’s Inn and Temple Bar. Red paint has gone up in price, I hear, for nearly every house owner has had to buy some to daub the cross on his door. I saw one man fall on Coleman street to-day, and in less than an hour he was dead in the alley where they had moved him. Oh, man! it would be well for you, if you had never ventured in from the fields; for I see that you have the healthful looking face and air of a countryman.”
“Does one die quickly?” asked Tabbard, with a quaver in his voice.
“Too quickly to send either for doctor, or priest, in some cases,” replied Gyves.
“And is there no help?”
“Little before and none after the black spots appear.”
“And do many die?”
“Thousands.”