Several rocks fell against his back. He swayed, for they were thrown with some force and he felt sharp pains.

"I came here to be of help..." he began.

"Murderer!"

Then they rained against him, knocking him to his knees. He rose and ran. More of them hit him, but he stumbled on.

He continued to look for some place of refuge--any place--saw none, lengthened his strides.

There were more things thrown, and he fell. This time he did not rise so quickly. He felt several kicks, and someone spat into his face.

"Killer!"

"Please ... Listen to me! I can explain."

"Go to hell!"

He crawled, huddling finally against a wall, and now they came in close. There were kicks, spit, stones.

"Please! I'm clean again!"

"Bastard!"

Then came the fury. It was not right that they use him so, he felt. He had come to their town for a humanitarian purpose. He had undergone hardship to reach Italbar. Now he was bleeding on its streets and being cursed. Who were they to judge him as they had done, to call him names and abuse him? This thing rose up within him, and he knew that, had he the power, he would have reached out and crushed them all.

Hatred, that thing nearly unknown to him, suddenly filled his body with cold fire. He wished that he had not undergone catharsis. He would be the plague-bearer, infecting them all.

The kicks and missiles continued.

He drew his arms across his abdomen, hands before his face, and suffered them.

You'd better kill me, he said to himself. Because if you don't, I'll be back.

Where had he felt this way before? He did not seek the memory, but it returned.

The church. The Strantrian shrine. That was where he had experienced something akin to this hatred. Now he saw that it was right. Strange not to have realized it back then .

His ribs felt broken, his right kneecap dislodged. He was missing several teeth, and the blood and sweat kept filling his eyes. The crowd continued to abuse him, and he was never certain when it was that it let up.