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His brain reeled. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. Why should I peep at it through smoked glass to see things that don’t affect me?” He smiled his delight at his companion.
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