"Give me one of them," cried Death, "to plant in my garden; only one of them, and I will go away."

"I will not give thee anything," said Avarice, and she hid her hand in the fold of her raiment.

And Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of water, and out of the cup rose Ague.

She passed through the great multitude, and a third of them lay dead.

A cold mist followed her, and the water-snakes ran by her side.

And when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat her breast and wept.

She beat her barren bosom and cried aloud.

"Thou hast slain a third of my servants," she cried, "get thee gone.

There is war in the mountains of Tartary, and the kings of each side are calling to thee.

The Afghans have slain the black ox, and are marching to battle.