A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden walks—­a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat of the past night.  I was at that time absorbed in the study of Plato, and as I walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and deep questions suggested by that great teacher.  Lost in a train of profound yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than I intended, and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household—­a winding footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor.  It was shady and cool, and I followed the road almost unconsciously, till I caught a glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage of the overarching trees.  I was then about to retrace my steps, when I was startled by a sudden sound.  It was a low moan of intense pain—­a smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture.  I turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on the grass, a boy—­a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of age.  His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches, grapes, pomegranates, and melons—­lovely but dangerous eating in cholera times.  I touched the lad on the shoulder.”

“What ails you?” I asked.  He twisted himself convulsively and turned his face toward me—­a beautiful face, though livid with anguish.

“The plague, signor!” he moaned; “the plague!  Keep away from me, for the love of God!  I am dying!”

I hesitated.  For myself I had no fear.  But my wife—­my child—­for their sakes it was necessary to be prudent.  Yet I could not leave this poor boy unassisted.  I resolved to go to the harbor in search of medical aid.  With this idea in my mind I spoke cheerfully.

“Courage, my boy,” I said; “do not lose heart!  All illness is not the plague.  Rest here till I return; I am going to fetch a doctor.”

The little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and tried to smile.  He pointed to his throat, and made an effort to speak, but vainly.  Then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in torture like a hunted animal wounded to the death.  I left him and walked on rapidly; reaching the harbor, where the heat was sulphurous and intense, I found a few scared-looking men standing aimlessly about, to whom I explained the boy’s case, and appealed for assistance.  They all hung back—­none of them would accompany me, not even for the gold I offered.  Cursing their cowardice, I hurried on in search of a physician, and found one at last, a sallow Frenchman, who listened with obvious reluctance to my account of the condition in which I had left the little fruit-seller, and at the end shook his head decisively, and refused to move.

“He is as good as dead,” he observed, with cold brevity.  “Better call at the house of the Miserecordia; the brethren will fetch his body.”