"Perhaps He has deserted all Christians. Perhaps the whole world has turned Turk. If so, I'd rather stay here and be a leper."
"Never believe it. Yanne, my husband, who is a great traveler, says that the English will one day kill all the Turks in the world, and give Crete back to Greece. And the English are in some respects like Christians. At any rate, they do not believe in Mohammed."
The lepers began to bestir themselves. A patriarchal-looking man with a tuft of white hair above each ear, a snowy beard and a dirty mustache, shuffled by the door, carrying a water jug. Seeing the two women, he stopped and peered into the hut, saying:
"Good-morning, sister Aglaia," and "Good-morning, sister——"
"Pa—Paraskeve," stammered Panayota.
"Where are you from, sister, and how long have you been afflicted?"
Aglaia answered glibly. Her guest was from a little village far away. God only knows how she had got leprosy, and she had only come last night. The old man wore a priest's frock, shiny and ragged, and reaching to his feet. His woolen shirt was open in front, disclosing two or three tawny stains. His face was unnaturally red, far up onto his bald brow, and was streaked with angry-looking, vein-like lines. He had no eyebrows.
"Hum," he said. "Adio! Adio!" and he shuffled away, muttering:
"God have mercy! God have mercy!"
"That's Papa-Spiro," explained Aglaia. "He is a priest. They say that it is a judgment on him—that he made love to one of his congregation."