“Och, sure, an what’s the use? Didn’t I say it? What are ye tormentin me for to say it again? Haven’t I just run away whin it’s too late intirely? An the leprosy’s tuk, so it has!”
“The—the what? What’s that?” asked Phil. “Sure an haven’t I been sayin that it’s a leper I am,” cried Pat, despairingly.
“A leper!” repeated Phil, who began to think that poor Pat was quite insane, and wondered what he ought to do with him under the circumstances.
“I’ve happened among lepers,” said Pat. “I’ve bathed in the leper wather—an that’s the way I tuk it. I’ve ate wid the leper praste; an Bart’s wid him now—in the wuds—they’re huntin afther you; but I ran for it—for I was hopin to get away before the leprosy tuk—but tuk it did—in spite of me; and that’s all about it.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Phil, in bewilderment, for Pat’s remarks had some degree of connectedness, and did not sound quite like insanity except his allusions to leprosy. “I don’t understand,” said he, “what you mean about leprosy.”
“Sure it’s the Lazaretto, at Tracadie, I mean. I got the leprosy by bathin, so I did—an aitin wid the leper praste.”
“You’ll have to explain. This is all nonsense. Come, Pat, don’t make a fool of yourself. You’ve got some absurd idea in your head, Come, tell me all about it, for I can’t make it out at all, you know.”
“Well, it’s this way,” said Pat, with undiminished dolefulness; “ony don’t be kapin too nair me if ye vally yer life—this was the way of it. Ye see we wandhered about the wuds afther ye, an sure enough before we knowed it we got lost ourselves. Well, we wandhered about, and at last we come out in a place they call Tracadie, an bad luck to it. So we mit a praste that was all smiles and blarney, an he tuk us to his house an gave us fud. Well, thin, I wint out for a walk, an I see a bit of wather, an wint to it to have a bit of a swim. Well, I come to a onwhowlsome lookin place, wid ghosts of people in it, that wud fairly make yer blood run cowld to look at, an I stared at thim, an walked right close to thim, an brathed their brith, an walked over their ground, an wint on to the wather, an ondrissed, an wint in. An I shwam there nearly an hour, an thin I wint back, an what do ye think the praste towld me.”
“What?” asked Phil.
“Sure, he up an he towld us that the onwhowlsome lookin house wor a lazaretto, an the ghosts of people there wor lepers—nothin else—an he said he wor the leper praste, an spint the most of his time wid thim same—sittin wid thim—talkin wid thim—feelin thim—handlin thim—an brathin the poison leper air. An he towld us that the wather was the leper wather, where the lepers bathed. An I had bathed there,” cried Pat, with a burst of despair. “An I’d tuk a shwirn there,” he cried, with another burst. “An I’d been in the house of the leper praste,”—a groan—“an I’d sat on his chairs,”—another groan—“an I’d ate at his table,”—a howl—“an I’d swallowed his fud,”—another howl—“an I’d been gettin the leprosy meself all the time,” and a cry that was something like a yell of despair terminated Pat’s story.