Joconda must have died somewhere about midnight, so the apothecary told them when he came. He said that death had come from sheer old age; the life had ceased, that was all, as an old tree falls, as an old clock refuses to move and grows dumb. There was nothing strange in it. She had been eighty-five years old if one. No one had noticed her house being closed all day, because it was so often shut up in that way when she was absent.
When Musa regained consciousness she saw the brown, withered, labour-bent body lying still upon the mattress, as an old broken bough will lie on the cold ground.
'I robbed her last night!' she said suddenly, with a piteous self-reproach. Her great eyes had a grievous despair and shame in them.
Happily for her, in the clamour of tongues around her no one heard or heeded. No one thought of her, or troubled about her. Joconda must be buried before another day broke, that was what they thought of, and talked of who would have the little she had saved, and the mule. It was a strong beast and useful, although old; they began to ask each other what they would give for it, and
