Ariston began to be more afraid. He thought of Death as he had painted
him in his picture. He imagined that he saw him hiding behind a column.
He thought he heard his cruel laugh. He tried to look up toward the
mountain, but the stones pelted him down. He felt terribly alone. Was
all the rest of the world dead? Or was every one else in some safe
place?

"Come, Caius, we must get away," he cried. "We shall be buried here."

He snatched up one of the blankets from the couch. He threw the ends
over his shoulders and let a loop hang at his back. He stood the sick
boy in this and wound the ends around them both. Caius was tied to his
slave's back. His heavy little head hung on Ariston's shoulder. Then the
Greek tied a pillow over his own head. He snatched up a staff and ran
from the house. He looked at his picture as he passed. He thought he
saw Death half rise from the ground. But Apollo seemed to smile at his
artist.

At the front door Ariston stumbled. He found the street piled deep with
the gray, soft pebbles. He had to scramble up on his hands and knees.
From the house opposite ran a man. He looked wild with fear. He was
clutching a little statue of gold. Ariston called to him, "Which way to
the gate?"

But the man did not hear. He rushed madly on. Ariston followed him. It
cheered the boy a little to see that somebody else was still alive in
the world. But he had a hard task. He could not run. The soft pebbles
crunched under his feet and made him stumble. He leaned far forward
under his heavy burden. The falling shower scorched his bare arms and