It’s not far from twilight. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. Don’t think I can’t sympathize and understand.
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