From the stricken towns
people fled to the monasteries, lying away there in their seclusion,
safely, favoured of God. If there was hope anywhere it must be there.
As frightened widows and orphans flocked to these havens of refuge,
they carried the Black Death with them, and when they dropped death-
stricken at the doors, they left the contagion behind them as their
only legacy. Guilty wretches with a load of crime upon their
consciences--desperate as far as this world was concerned, and ready
for any act of wickedness should the occasion arrive--shuddered lest
they should go down to burning flame for ever now that there was none
to shrive them or to give the _viaticum_ to any late penitent in
his agony. In the tall towers by the wayside the bells hung mute; no
hands to ring them or none to answer to their call Meanwhile, across
the lonely fields, toiling dismally, and ofttimes missing the track--
for who should guide them or show the path?--parson and monk and
trembling nun made the best of their way to Norwich; their errand to
seek admission to the vacant preferment. Think of them, after miles
of dreary travelling, reaching the city gates at last, and
shudderingly threading the filthy alleys which then served as
streets, stepping back into doorways to give the dead carts passage,
and jostled by lepers and outcasts, the touch of whose garments was
itself a horror.
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