Excerpt from Speculative Dialogues, Vol. 5

Famine.

Well met, my sister! It was a long way off that I saw through the heat-shimmer the black waving of thy skirts upon the lowmost air.

Pestilence.

Greeting, dear sister; this, then, is the place we were to meet at?

Famine.

Yes; thou and I, with our kindly besoms, are to sweep this cumbered floor of India a little.

Pestilence.

Well, I am ready; and I see the holy hunger gleaming in thy eyes, two pointed green brilliances behind the red ardour. We must await our Mothers signal, I suppose?

Famine.

As the sacred wont is. Till then let us talk awhile, for when the work begins, thou knowest our Mother enjoins silence. Come, sit, and ease thy shoulders of thy sack. What, my sister, thy sack is full of a notable writhing; they are hungry, thy little hounds? Which hast thou brought this time?

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