As the fire spread on the ship, the ever-present rats aboard do what rats have done since men learned to sail - they scramble over the rail and begin to swim for shore. Hidden between the pilings below a dock, Mirwin croons quietly to them, "Come to me my children ... come to me ... yesss ... more ..." as he reaches out to their tiny little minds [2,3,2,mind], enticing them into the huge basket sitting on the rocks next to him. The filthy young man doesn't seem to notice the foul harbor water sloshing over his bare feet and wetting the bottom of his beggar's rags - it was still cleaner than he was, anyway. His matted brown hair and scraggly beard frames pale blue eyes burning with the intensity of a zealot.
Mirwin had placed an old moldy loaf of bread in the bottom of the basket as an added incentive, should his mental call go unheard or unheeded. "Come, my children," he whispers to them, "We have much work to do. The pestilence is afoot, and we must spread it among these arrogant southerners." Mirwin rubs his hands together in gleeful anticipation as the tiny wet forms scrabbled ashore.
