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."