Strickland stepped to the door and looked out. There must have been something terrible in his face, for suddenly they all burst out into loud cries and lamentation. They lifted up their voices and they wept. Strickland did not speak. After looking at them for a moment, he came back into the room.
“How long do you think I can last?”
“Who knows? Sometimes the disease continues for twenty years. It is a mercy when it runs its course quickly.”
Strickland went to his easel and looked reflectively at the picture that stood on it.
“You have had a long journey. It is fitting that the bearer of important tidings should be rewarded. Take this picture. It means nothing to you now, but it may be that one day you will be glad to have it.”
Dr. Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his journey; he had already given back to Ata the hundred-franc note, but Strickland insisted that he should take the picture. Then together they went out on the verandah. The natives were sobbing violently. “Be quiet, woman. Dry thy tears,” said Strickland, addressing Ata. “There is no great harm. I shall leave thee very soon.”
“They are not going to take thee away?” she cried.
At that time there was no rigid sequestration on the islands, and lepers, if they chose, were allowed to go free.
“I shall go up into the mountain,” said Strickland.
Then Ata stood up and faced him.