"Na!" she said, "eat and gain strength, and we will devise some means for you to get away from here." Panayota felt as though the very food were contaminated, but she managed to eat some of the bread, pulling morsels from the center of the loaf. Once again she heard voices from without, and started from her seat, whispering: "The Turks are coming!" "Fear nothing here," said Aglaia, in that calm, uncaring voice; "you are as safe here as if you were in your grave--safer, for the Turks sometimes exhume the bones of Christians, but they never disturb us. We are all dead in this village, dead to the hate of the world, to its love, to its friendship." Panayota could make no reply. Human sympathy seemed a mockery in the face of such sorrow as this. She stepped to the door and looked out. All was silent in the narrow street. The lepers are not a gay folk, and sleep is to them God's greatest boon. "They do not even fear the Turks!" she muttered. "My God! Suppose I should catch it! I must get away from here." Turning, she looked keenly at Aglaia, who sat with hands clasped in her lap, rocking gently forward and back. "But you do not seem to be sick, my sister. Why do you think you have leprosy? You look as well as I do." Aglaia laughed bitterly. Rising, she struck her left leg with her doubled fist, and stamped upon the ground. "Numb, numb," she said. "No feeling. I am only one-fourth dead now, but it will creep on, on, over my whole body. Come here a few years from now, when it gets into my face, and you will know whether I am a leper or not." Panayota stood for a long time looking out into the darkness. She was weary to very faintness, but it seemed safer to stand there, turning her face to the night, breathing the cool air. Besides, she could not talk with this woman. She did not know what to say to her. At last Aglaia spoke again: "Forgive me," she said, with a sob in her voice. "I have no one to talk to, and I sit here and brood over it. And it will be for years--for years. But you must be very tired, and you must rest so as to go on with your journey. Come and lie down on the _barangitza_. I will not come near you." Panayota lay down upon the hard planks and made a pillow of her arm. "I cannot offer you the bed-clothing," said Aglaia. "It might not be safe." So weary was Panayota that she dropped off into a doze, only to be awakened after a few moments by the sound of low sobbing. Listening, she heard the words: "O, my God, I am an outcast, a thing accursed. I am poison to the touch. Holy Virgin, save my children, save my little ones." Panayota sat up on the bench. "I cannot sleep, sister Aglaia," she said, "I am so sorry for you. If my father were here he would know what to say to you. He was killed by the Turks. I am an orphan." She spoke of her own grief instinctively, feeling that the sympathy of the prosperous is not a comfort to those in sorrow.