Weeks went by; the plague drew its horrible length along the river, through the town's byways, through the unsunned huddled places, through creeks and docks and open gutters, through wells and cisterns and cesspools; and all its attendant horrors followed in ghastly procession. Death no longer stooped, hawk-like; it settled heavily down beside its victim as a vulture settles, filthy, evil, cold. From the night of their meeting at Bush Hill, Anthony and Mademoiselle Lafargue saw a deal of each other; there were no words said, no compact made; but the fights which both were pressing were paired, and the good they had been able to accomplish was greatly multiplied. Seeing this, others added their help; Bush Hill was cleansed of its villainies; aid was carried into neglected quarters. The group became compact and strong; others, like it, sprang up; a wall of resolution began to rear itself in the path of the pestilence--a wall behind which fear and superstition died. Those who had fled weeks before watched and waited from the heights beyond the city. Over the point of land between the two rivers, upon which the city had been built, they saw a bank of vapor hanging; and gradually the belief spread that in this was contained the essence of the plague. Frightened eyes watched it. If a wind stirred the trees on the hillsides, the refugees were up, thrilling with dread. In what direction did it blow? Was it from the city? What if it got under the poisonous mist and lifted it toward them? After all, were they quite safe? Would it not be better if they traveled north toward the higher hills? At Rufus Stevens' Sons, as at other mercantile houses, things were at a stop. Charles was seldom there; at times he might be found in a deep sleep on a sofa at his house on Ninth Street; but his waking hours were spent among the sick. What little business stirred was taken care of by Captain Weir, who came punctually to the counting-house each day; Whitaker was gone, having been one of the first to leave the city; Griggs and Twitchell, men of family both, kept themselves close to their homes and ventured nowhere. But Tom Horn came. As regularly as day dawned, he was up and cooked himself a meager breakfast at his lodgings in Pump Court, and then off to Rufus Stevens' Sons in Water Street, and the ledgers, and the day's doings. The river was full of craft which had been forbidden to sail; hand-barrows and horse-drawn vehicles had disappeared from the streets during the day; the people met with were few; they passed furtively, and at as great a distance as possible for fear of contagion. Tom would take down the shutters, for the porters, too, were gone; then he'd take the books from the chest in which they were kept and put them upon the tall desk, and look at the clock.