and nowhere did bird or breeze stir, the women came, and they found him seated with his back turned to the town. He was looking into the deep woods, into the hot shadows of the trees.
"We have come to bring you to the little city," they said to him; "the sick grow in numbers every hour."
"It is safe in the hills," he answered, not looking at them. "Why do the people stay in the valley?"
"Every man has a friend, or a wife, or a child, ill or dying, and every woman has a husband, or a child, or a friend, or a brother. Cowards have fled, and many of them have fallen by the way."
"Last summer I lay sick here many weeks and none came near me—why should I go to the little city?" he demanded austerely. "Four times I saved it, and of all that I saved none came to give me water to drink, or food to eat, and I lay burning with fever, and thirsty and hungry—God of heaven, how thirsty!"
"We did not know," they answered humbly; "you came to us so seldom, we had forgotten; we were fools."
"I came and went fifty years," he answered bitterly, "and I have forgotten how to rid the little city of the plague!"
At that one of the women, mad with anger, made as if to catch him by his beard, but she forbore, and said: "Liar—the men shall hang you to your own roof-tree!"
His eyes had a wild light, but he waved his hand quietly, and answered: "Begone, and learn how great a sin is ingratitude."
He turned away from them gloomily, and would have entered his home, but one of the women, who
