“She’s a damned fool. I have had a few aches and pains lately and a little fever, but that’s nothing; it will pass off. Next time anyone went to Papeete I was going to send for some quinine.” “Look at yourself in the glass.” Strickland gave him a glance, smiled, and went over to a cheap mirror in a little wooden frame, that hung on the wall. “Well?” “Do you not see a strange change in your face? Do you not see the thickening of your features and a look—how shall I describe it?—the books call it lion-faced. _Mon pauvre ami_, must I tell you that you have a terrible disease?” “I?” “When you look at yourself in the glass you see the typical appearance of the leper.” “You are jesting,” said Strickland. “I wish to God I were.” “Do you intend to tell me that I have leprosy?” “Unfortunately, there can be no doubt of it.” Dr. Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and he could never overcome the horror with which it filled him. He felt always the furious hatred that must seize a man condemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life. Strickland looked at him in silence. Nothing of emotion could be seen on his face, disfigured already by the loathsome disease. “Do they know?” he asked at last, pointing to the persons on the verandah, now sitting in unusual, unaccountable silence. “These natives know the signs so well,” said the doctor. “They were afraid to tell you.” Strickland stepped to the door and looked out. There must have been something terrible in his face, for suddenly they all burst out into loud cries and lamentation. They lifted up their voices and they wept. Strickland did not speak. After looking at them for a moment, he came back into the room. “How long do you think I can last?” “Who knows? Sometimes the disease continues for twenty years. It is a mercy when it runs its course quickly.” Strickland went to his easel and looked reflectively at the picture that stood on it. “You have had a long journey. It is fitting that the bearer of important tidings should be rewarded. Take this picture. It means nothing to you now, but it may be that one day you will be glad to have it.” Dr. Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his journey; he had already given back to Ata the hundred-franc note, but Strickland insisted that he should take the picture. Then together they went out on the verandah. The natives were sobbing violently. “Be quiet, woman. Dry thy tears,” said Strickland, addressing Ata. “There is no great harm. I shall leave thee very soon.” “They are not going to take thee away?” she cried. At that time there was no rigid sequestration on the islands, and lepers, if they chose, were allowed to go free. “I shall go up into the mountain,” said Strickland. Then Ata stood up and faced him.