“O, it’s a place where we keep lepers.”
“Lepers!” cried Pat, in a voice of horror; and his ruddy face changed to a sickly pallor.
“Lepers?” said Bart. “Lepers? What, lepers here, in this country?”
“Yes,” said the priest. “It’s a miserable story. A great many years ago a French ship was wrecked in the Miramichi River. There were some clothing and bedding on board that came from the Levant, and the people here used them; and it is said that from this clothing they caught this terrible disease. It has continued here ever since, and the place has been established here for the poor creatures.”
“Lepers!” groaned Pat again. “An me walkin by that place, and thinkin of goin in.”
“It’s a terrible thing,” said the priest. “The patients who go there are dead to their friends. They never can hope to see them again.”
“Och, murdher!” cried Pat, starting up. “What’ll iver become of me? Och, murdher! Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
“What’s the matter?” asked the priest, in surprise.
“Och, everything’s the matther. Sure, an didn’t I go an swim for over half an hour in the leper wather, down yondher?”
“Leper water?” said the priest. “What is that?”