“Before you go,” said he, “let me give you a warning. Look at my hands.”
He held out his palms, and I saw that they were covered with a rash, red and angry-looking. He rubbed his palms together, as if to soothe an irritation.
“The itching palms!” said he. “I have handled the dead leaves all my life; and because I have handled them my palms itch, itch, all day and night, without ever a moment’s peace. I warn you not to touch the dead leaves. The dead leaves of the orange tree; do not touch them.”
“Very well,” said I, and with these words we left him.
The Guardian of the Gate, leading us back into the city streets, turned and said:
“You have just had your first chance to gain the best thing in the world. I will now give you your second. Be careful how you choose.”
We entered a street of shops; and I now noticed that the people were, each of them, rubbing their palms together, as if to soothe an intolerable itching.
I paused to look into one of the shops as we passed. The customers within were handing over to the dealer, in return for his goods, leaves, dead leaves, of the sort we had seen in the glass showrooms; and whenever these dead leaves passed from hand to hand, I remarked that the itching of the palm they touched became more exasperating, so that the people were quite beside themselves, and could not keep quiet on their feet; but the dealer nevertheless received the dead leaves eagerly, and the others gave them up with reluctance.
“These people are mad,” said I.
We joined a great rout of people, all rubbing their hands, who were pouring down a street in the direction of an open square; and when we reached it, we saw in the center, on a platform above the heads of the crowd, a man in a robe, who was evidently about to read from a paper held in his hand.