He started back, thrusting her almost roughly aside.
"Touch me not, woman!" he cried; "for I am—unclean."
She stared at him, her eyes dark with horror, the delicate bloom fading from cheeks and lips. He shuddered and covered his face with his hands.
"Naaman, what meaneth thou?" she asked. "My husband, speak."
His hands fell, he turned and faced her.
"Claudia," he said, "this morning, as I passed through the streets of Damascus, glances of pity and loathing were cast upon me, until, I, Naaman, did bow my head in shame. I have riches, fame and honor, but the very beggars in the streets do pity me for I am a—leper."
She shrank back with a faint cry.
"Ay, 'tis true," he continued, bitterly. "All Damascus doth know what I have feared to tell to thee because I love thee; because I did fear to read in thy sweet eyes the horror and the loathing with which all regard me. The leper is accursed, unclean, whom many loathe, all pity, but none may love."
"Nay, thou art wrong," murmured Claudia, tenderly. "Thy wife doth love thee, ay, but the more tenderly because of thy affliction."
Into Naaman's haggard eyes there flashed a look of joy.