oved
it slightly. She saw that he made with it the sign of the Cross.

"I thank you," he said, with a look of quiet gratitude. "I expected as
much, when you came to understand my request. Again, thank you!" and he
drew back humbly, and left her there alone; while her heart smote her
bitterly for all the foolish encouragement which she had given to one so
tender and humble, and delicate and true.

And so did Frank Headley get what he wanted; by that plain earnest
simplicity, which has more power (let worldlings pride themselves as
they will on their knowledge of women) than all the cunning wiles of the
most experienced rake; and only by aping which, after all, can the rake
conquer. It was a strange thing for Valencia to do, no doubt: but the
strange things which are done in the world (which are some millions
daily) are just what keep the world alive.

CHAPTER XVII.

BAALZEBUB'S BANQUET.

The next day there were three cholera cases: the day after there were
thirteen.

He had come at last, Baalzebub, God of flies, and of what flies are bred
from; to visit his self-blinded worshippers, and bestow on them his own
Cross of the Legion of Dishonour. He had come suddenly, capriciously,
sportively, as he sometimes comes; as he had come to Newcastle the
summer before, while yet the rest of England was untouched. He had
wandered all but harmless about the West country that summer; as if his
maw had been full glutted five years before, when he sat for many a week
upon the Dartmoor hills, amid the dull brown haze, and sun-burnt bents,
and dried-up watercourses of white dusty granite, looking far and wide
over the plague-struck land, and listening to the dead-bell booming all
day long in Tavistock churchyard. But he was come at last, with appetite
more fierce than ever, and had darted aside to seize on Aberalva, and
not to let it go till he had sucked his fill.

And all men moved about the streets slowly, fearfully; conscious of some
awful unseen presence, which might spring on them from round every
corner; some dreadful inevitable spell, which lay upon them like a
nightmare weight; and walked to and fro warily, looking anxiously into
each other's faces, not to ask, "How are you?" but "How am I?" "Do I
look as if--?" and glanced up ever and anon restlessly, as if they
expected to see, like the Greeks, in their tainted camp, by Troy, the
pitiless Sun-god shooting his keen arrows down on beast and man.

All night long