“Well, what think ye of Bladud?” asked the king, when his physician entered his chamber, and carefully shut the door.
“He is smitten with a fatal disease,” said the doctor in a low, earnest voice.
“Not absolutely fatal?” cried the king, with sudden anxiety.
“As far as I know it is so. There is no cure that I ever heard of. Bladud is smitten with leprosy. It may be years before it kills him, but it will surely do so at last.”
“Impossible—impossible!” cried the king, becoming fierce and unbelieving in his horror. “You are too confident, my medicine-man. You may, you must, be mistaken. There is a cure for everything!”
“Not for leprosy,” returned the doctor, with sad but firm emphasis. “At least I never heard of a cure being effected, except by some of the Eastern wise men.”
“Then, by all the gods that protect our race and family, my son shall return to the East and one of these wise men shall cure him—else—else— Have ye told the queen?”
“Not yet.”
“That is well. I will myself tell her. Go!” This summary dismissal was nothing new to the doctor, who understood the king well, and sympathised with his obvious distress. Pausing at the door, however, he said—
“I have often talked with Phoenician captains about this disease, and they tell me that it is terribly infectious, insomuch that those who are smitten with it are compelled to live apart and keep away from men. If Bladud remains here the disease will surely spread through the house, and thence through the town.”