“Do you not see a strange change in your face? Do you not see the thickening of your features and a look—how shall I describe it?—the books call it lion-faced. Mon pauvre ami, must I tell you that you have a terrible disease?”
“I?”
“When you look at yourself in the glass you see the typical appearance of the leper.”
“You are jesting,” said Strickland.
“I wish to God I were.”
“Do you intend to tell me that I have leprosy?”
“Unfortunately, there can be no doubt of it.”
Dr. Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and he could never overcome the horror with which it filled him. He felt always the furious hatred that must seize a man condemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life. Strickland looked at him in silence. Nothing of emotion could be seen on his face, disfigured already by the loathsome disease.
“Do they know?” he asked at last, pointing to the persons on the verandah, now sitting in unusual, unaccountable silence.
“These natives know the signs so well,” said the doctor. “They were afraid to tell you.”