For A While It May Be That The Caution Of The Poor Levantine May Enable Him To Avoid Contact, But

Sooner or later perhaps the dreaded chance arrives; that bundle of linen, with the dark tearful eyes at the top

Of it, that labours along with the voluptuous clumsiness of Grisi - she has touched the poor Levantine with the hem of her sleeve! From that dread moment his peace is gone; his mind, for ever hanging upon the fatal touch, invites the blow which he fears. He watches for the symptoms of plague so carefully, that sooner or later they come in truth. The parched mouth is a sign - his mouth is parched; the throbbing brain - his brain DOES throb; the rapid pulse - he touches his own wrist (for he dares not ask counsel of any man lest he be deserted), he touches his wrist, and feels how his frighted blood goes galloping out of his heart; there is nothing but the fatal swelling that is wanting to make his sad conviction complete; immediately he has an odd feel under the arm - no pain, but a little straining of the skin; he would to God it were his fancy that were strong enough to give him that sensation. This is the worst of all; it now seems to him that he could be happy and contented with his parched mouth and his throbbing brain and his rapid pulse, if only he could know that there were no swelling under the left arm; but dare he try?

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