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He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress

and pity. Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a

cross street on their way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring

to be allowed to die on their own beds in peace; some moving on

with imbecile apathy, women as usual with their little ones, and

even some of these supported and encouraged with manly devotion

by their brothers a little older than themselves, and whom alone

the plague had for a time spared for this affecting office. When

the miserable crowd had nearly passed, he addressed a commissary

whose aspect was a little less savage than the rest; and enquired

of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. He replied, "The

first street to the right, the last hotel to the left."