"Curse it!" cried Scott, "can't you say the word? Will you come, man?"
"It wouldn't do," said the sheeted man slowly. "You're fond of her, eh? Ay, but it wouldn't do. Any other man 'u'd suit ye better, me lad."
"There's no other man," said Scott angrily. "In all this blasted town there's no man but you. I've been through it like a terrier under a rick. And I'll tell you what." He took a step nearer; in his pocket his hand was on his knife. "You can have a hundred and fifty," he said, "and the boat, if you'll come. An' if you won't, by the Holy Iron, I'll cut your bloomin' throat here where you stand."
The other did not flinch from him. "Ay, an' you'll do that?" he said. "I like to hear you talk. Lad, do you know what fashion o' men it is that serve the dead-carts? Do ye know?" he demanded, seeming to clear his voice with an effort of the obstacle that hampered his speech.
"What d'you mean?" cried Scott.
"Look at me," bade the man, and drew back the sheet from his face. The starlight showed him clear.
Scott looked, while his heart slowed down within him, and bowed his head.
"And shall I steer your girl to Delagoa Bay?" the other asked.
"Yes," said Scott, after a pause. "There's nobody else, leper or not."
"Ah, well," said the leper, with a sigh, "so be it."