Short Fiction - The Leper of the City of Aosta

The Leper of the City of Aosta

The southern part of the city of Aosta is well-nigh forsaken, and appears to have been at no time very thickly inhabited. The tilled fields and green meadows are bounded on one side by the old ramparts thrown up by the Romans to shelter the city, and on the other by a few garden walls. This lonely spot is not, however, quite without interest to the traveller. Near the city gate are to be seen the ruins of an ancient castle, in which, according to popular tradition, in the fifteenth century, Count René of Chalans, goaded by the fury of jealousy, starved Marie of Braganza, his wife; and hence the name of Bramafan, “Hunger Cry,” which the people of the neighbourhood have conferred upon it. This tale, the authenticity of which is very questionable, inspires credulous and sensitive people with an interest in what is left of the building. Some hundred steps further on is a square tower, which leans against a part of the ancient walls, and is built of the marble with which they were formerly encased. This is called the “Tower of Terror,” it having long been believed to be haunted. The old women of Aosta remember very well how that, on dark nights, a tall woman in white came from it, holding a lamp in her hand.

About fifteen years ago, this tower was repaired, and enclosed by government authority as a retreat for a leper, who, while thus separated from society, might enjoy such solace as was compatible with his sad condition. The hospital of Saint Maurice was to supply him with food and clothing; and he was provided with a few articles of furniture, and such tools as he might require for the cultivation of his garden. There he had lived for some time, shut up in himself, and seeing no one except the priest, who came from time to time to minister to his spiritual wants, and the messenger, who brought his weekly provisions from the hospital. During the war of the Alps, in the year 1797, a military man, who chanced to be at Aosta, happened to pass by the leper’s garden, and had the curiosity to enter it through the half-open gate. He found there a man, simply clad, leaning against a tree, and buried in deep thought. On hearing the sound made by the officer in entering, he said in a sad tone, but without looking round:⁠—

“Who is there?⁠—what do you want of me?”

“Pardon a stranger,” replied the officer, “who has been tempted, by its pleasing appearance, to intrude himself into your garden, but who has no wish to disturb you.”

“Come no further,” answered the occupant of the tower, making a motion with his hand, “come no further; you are in the presence of an unfortunate man suffering from leprosy.”

“Whatever your misfortune may be,” answered the traveller, “I will not withdraw on that account. I have never fled from those in distress; still, if my presence troubles you, I will retire.”

“Stay in welcome,” said the leper, turning quickly round, “if you do not fear to do so after looking at me.”

The officer stood for some moments motionless with surprise and terror at the sight of this unfortunate being, whom leprosy had completely disfigured.

“I will gladly stay,” he said, “if you will accept the visit of a man whom sheer chance has led hither, but whom a lively interest in your case detains.”

Interest?⁠ ⁠… I have never moved aught but pity.

I should indeed be happy if I could offer you any consolation.

It is a great consolation to me but to see a human being, and to hear one of those human voices which generally seem to shun me.

Allow me, then, to spend a little time in conversing with you, and in seeing your dwelling.

By all means, if agreeable to you. (As he spoke, the leper covered his head with a large felt hat, the falling brim of which hid his face.) Come, (he added,) this way, to the south side. I tend a little flowerbed that may please you; you will find there some rather rare specimens. I procured the seed of all the flowers that grow wild in the Alps, and have tried to get them to double, and to beautify them by cultivation.

Some of these flowers do indeed seem quite new to me.

Look at that little rosebush. It is the thornless rose, which grows on the high Alps. But it is already losing its peculiarity, and throws out more and more thorns under cultivation.

It should be the emblem of ingratitude!

If any of these flowers please you, you may gather them without fear, and you will run no risk in carrying them about you. I planted them, and I have the gratification of watering them, and seeing them; but I never handle them.

Why so?

I should fear to sully them⁠ ⁠… and I could not then venture to offer them for acceptance.

And what will you do with them?

The people who bring my food from the hospital do not hesitate to make them into nosegays. Sometimes, too, the children from the town come to my garden-gate, when I go at once to my tower, lest I should frighten or harm them. From my window I see them skip about and pick a flower here and there. When they go away they look up at me, and say, “Good day, Leper;” and that cheers me a little.

You have managed to get together here a great variety of plants. I see you have vines and several kinds of fruit-trees.

The trees are still young. I planted them myself; and so I did that vine, which I trained along the old wall, whose broad top makes me a little walk. It is my favourite spot. Mount those stones; they are a flight of steps of my own handiwork. Keep along by the wall.

What a delightful retreat! And how well suited for the meditations of a recluse.

I am very fond of it. I look from here upon the country and the labourers in the fields. I see what is going on in the meadow, but am seen by no one.

The quietness and retirement of this spot are wonderful. We are in a town, and yet might fancy ourselves in a desert.

Solitude is not always to be found in the midst of forests and rocks. The unhappy are alone everywhere.

What were the circumstances that brought you here? Is this your native place?

I was born by the seaside, in the principality of Oneille, and have only lived here for fifteen years. As to my history, it is but one long unbroken misery.

Have you always lived alone?

I lost my parents in my infancy. I never knew them. The one sister who was left to me has been dead two years. I never had a friend.

Poor man!

Such is God’s will.

And may I ask your name?

Alas! mine is a terrible name. I am known as the Leper. My family name and that which religion conferred upon me on the day of my birth, have remained undivulged. I am the Leper. No other title have I to the kindness of men; and I trust they may never know who I am.

And the sister you lost⁠—did she live with you?

She lived for five years with me in this dwelling. She was in the same unhappy case as myself; she shared my sorrows, and I did my best to relieve hers.

And how do you now occupy yourself in this profound solitude?

An account of the occupations of such a solitary being as I am could not but be very monotonous to a man of the world, whose happiness is derived from the activity of social life.

Ah! little do you know the life of which you speak⁠—a life in which I have never found happiness. I am often alone from choice; and, perhaps, there is more likeness between our thoughts than you suppose. But, still, I admit that unbroken solitude seems very awful to me. I can hardly picture it to myself.

The Imitation of Jesus Christ teaches us that he who loves his cell will find in it peace. I am beginning to feel the truth of these consoling words. The sense of loneliness is relieved by labour. The man who works is never altogether wretched. Of this I am a proof. In fine weather, the cultivation of my garden and flowerbed gives me enough employment; and during winter I make baskets and mats. I also make my own clothes. Every day I prepare my food from the provisions brought me from the hospital; and prayer fills up the time my labours leave me. And so the year glides by, and when it is passed, it seems to me to have been but short.

One would think it would seem an age to you.

Troubles and vexations make the hours seem long; but the years always roll on with the same speed. And then, somehow, however unhappy one is, there is an enjoyment most men never experience, and which will seem a very singular one to you; I mean the bare fact of existing and breathing. In fine weather I spend whole days motionless on this rampart enjoying the fresh air, and the beauty of nature. At such times all my ideas are vague and indefinite; sadness rests in my heart without oppressing it; my eyes wander over that open country and the rocks that lie around us. These different aspects are so impressed upon my memory that they form, as it were, a part of my self, and each spot is a friend that I see every day with pleasure.

I have often felt something of the same kind. When oppressed by trouble, and I fail to find in others’ hearts what my own seeks, the sight of nature and inanimate things consoles me. I devote my affection to the rocks and trees, and I feel as if all created things were friends that God has sent me.

You encourage me in my turn to explain what passes in my own mind. I love sincerely the objects which are, as it were, my companions for life, and which I see daily. In the evening, before I retire to my tower, I bid farewell to the glaciers of Ruitorts, the dark woods of mount Saint Bernard, and the strange peaks that rise above the valley of Rhème. True though it is that the power of God is as manifest in the creation of an ant as in that of the whole universe, the grand spectacle of the mountains takes a greater hold upon my senses. I cannot look out upon those huge masses covered with eternal ice without a feeling of religious wonder. But in the vast panorama that surrounds me, there are spots of which I am especially fond; among these is the hermitage you see yonder on the summit of Charvensod. Alone, in the midst of the woods, and skirted by an untilled field, it is bathed by the last rays of the setting sun. Although I have never visited the spot, I experience a singular pleasure in seeing it. At nightfall, as I sit in my garden, I gaze upon that lonely hermitage, and my imagination finds rest there. The place has become to me sort of property. A hazy reminiscence seems to tell me that I once lived there in happier times whose memory has faded from me. Above all, I love to watch the distant mountains mingle on the horizon with the sky. Distance, like futurity, excites hope in my breast. My heavy heart beats with the faith in a far-off land, where, on some future day, I may, perhaps, taste that happiness for which I sigh, and which a secret instinct presents incessantly to my mind as possible.

With such an ardent nature as yours, you must have had many a struggle before you could resign yourself to your destiny, and free yourself from despair.

I should deceive you were I to leave you to suppose I have always been resigned to my fate. I have not, by any means, reached that abnegation of self which some anchorites have attained. Such an entire sacrifice of all human affections has not yet been accomplished. My life is passed in a constant struggle, and the strong aid of religion does not always suffice to restrain the flight of imagination, which often carries me, in spite of myself, into a sea of strange wishes, all of which lead me towards that world of which I know nothing, but whose fantastic image is always tormenting me.

Could I so open my mind to you that you could read my impression of the world, all these wishes and regrets would soon vanish.

In vain have books told me of the perversity of man, and the ills that attend humanity. My heart refuses them credence. I always picture to myself gatherings of sincere and virtuous friends; and well-matched couples whom health, youth, and prosperity crown with happiness. I see them, in my mind’s eye, treading together woods fresher and greener than those which shade my path; a more brilliant sun shines upon them than illumines my dwelling; and their lot seems the more worthy of envy when compared with my own wretchedness. In the early spring, when the wind from Piedmont whispers in our valley, I feel its life-giving breath instil itself into my heart, and I quiver with irresistible emotion. A strange yearning possesses me, and I have a confused sense of a boundless delight, which I might enjoy, but which is refused. Then I flee from my cell, and wander in the open fields that I may breathe more freely. I shun the eyes of those very men whom my heart burns to meet; and from the hilltop, hidden among the bushes like a wild animal, I look towards the town. I see from afar with envious eyes its happy inhabitants, who hardly know me. I stretch forth my hands towards them, and with deep sighs crave my share of happiness. In my transports⁠—shall I confess it?⁠—I have more than once clasped the trees of the forest in my arms, and asked God to animate them for me, and give me a friend. But the trees are mute. Their cold bark, which has nothing in common with my palpitating, burning heart, repels me. Overcome with fatigue, and weary of life, I drag myself once more to my retreat, I lay my agonies before God, and prayer brings to my soul something of its wonted peace.

And thus, poor sufferer, you have to endure at the same time mental and bodily torments!

And my bodily sufferings are not the hardest to bear.

Are they mitigated then at times?

Every month they increase and diminish with the course of the moon. At the new moon I generally suffer most; the malady then diminishes, and its character seems to change. My skin grows dry and white, and I scarcely feel anything more of my affliction; indeed it would always be tolerable were it not for the dreadful, sleepless nights it causes.

What! Does sleep even forsake you?

Ah, sir! those nights! those sleepless nights! You cannot imagine how long and sad is a whole night which a wretched man passes without even closing his eyes, and with a mind intent upon a position which has no hopeful future before it. No, no one can conceive what this is. As the night wears on my restlessness increases; and at its close my agitation is such that I do not know what to do with myself. My thoughts become disordered, and I am the prey of an extraordinary sensation that I never experience except at these sad times. At one moment an irresistible power drags me into a bottomless abyss; at another I see black spots before my eyes; but while I watch them they dart aside as quick as lightning, and then, growing bigger and bigger as they approach me, become mountains which crush me beneath their weight. At other times I see clouds rise out of the earth like swelling waves, which gather around me, threatening to overwhelm me. When I try to rise, and so turn the current of my thoughts, I feel held down by invisible chains, which render me quite helpless⁠ ⁠… You think that these are mere dreams. But no; I am wide awake at such moments. I see the same objects repeatedly; and the sense of horror they cause exceeds all the other evils I suffer.

Possibly you are feverish during these cruel hours of unrest, which would be quite sufficient to explain this sort of delirium.

You think that may be enough to cause it? Would that it might be so! I have always feared that the visions were a sign of madness, and I confess that the thought troubled me much. Would to God it were indeed the effect of fever!

You interest me greatly. I could never have conceived such a position as yours. But it must, I should think, have been less sad when your sister was alive.

God only knows what I lost by my sister’s death. But do you not fear being so near me? Sit here, on this stone, and I will place myself behind the branches; and then we can converse without seeing one another.

Why move? No, do not stir from my side. Sit here by me. (As he spoke, the traveller made an involuntary attempt to take the Leper by the hand, who quickly withdrew it.)

How could you be so imprudent! You were about to grasp my hand.

Yes, and I should have pressed it heartily.

It would have been the first time such a kindness had been shown me. No one has ever pressed my hand.

What! with the exception of the sister of whom you have spoken, you have formed no acquaintance, you have never been beloved by any fellow creature?

Fortunately for humanity, there is no one whom I can regard as my fellow.

Your words shock me!

Pardon me, compassionate stranger! The wretched, as you know, love to talk of their misfortunes.

Go on, go on; you interest me much! You were telling me that a sister once lived with you, who helped you to endure your sufferings.

This was the sole tie that still bound me to the rest of humanity. It pleased God to break it, and to leave me all alone in the world. Her soul was worthy of the heaven it inhabits, and her example bore me up against the despair which, since her death, so often overwhelms me. Ours was not, however, that delightful intimacy which I picture to myself, and which should unite friends in affliction. The nature of our misfortunes deprived us of that consolation. Even when we drew together to offer up our prayers to God, we mutually avoided looking one another in the face, lest the spectacle of our calamity should disturb our meditations⁠ ⁠… After our prayers, my sister generally withdrew to her cell, or to the shelter of the hazel trees at the end of the garden. We lived almost always apart from one another.

But why did you subject yourselves to this hard constraint?

When my sister was attacked by the contagious disease to which all the members of our family have been victims, and she came to share my retreat, we had never seen one another. The shock was great when she saw me for the first time; and the fear of distressing her, and the still greater fear of increasing her malady through my presence, compelled me to adopt this sad arrangement. The leprosy had attacked her chest only; and I had some hope of her recovery. You see what is left of the trellis which I have allowed to fall into neglect. It was a hedge of hops that I trained with care, and which divided the garden into two parts. I had shaped on each side a narrow path, along which we could walk and talk together, without seeing one another, or approaching one another too nearly.

It would seem as if Heaven had delighted in poisoning what sad solace it left you.

But at least I was not then alone. My sister’s presence gave life to this retreat. I heard her footsteps in my solitude; and when, at daybreak, I came beneath these trees to pray to God, the door of the tower opened gently, and the voice of my sister mingled insensibly with my own. In the evening, when I was watering my garden, she sometimes took her sunset walk here, at this very spot where I am speaking, and I used to see her shadow pass again and again over my flowers. Even when I did not see her, I found traces of her presence everywhere. But now I never chance to meet on my path with the leaves of a flower or the twigs of a shrub that have fallen from her hand. I am alone. There is no longer any movement or life around me, and the path that led to her favourite clump of shrubs is already disappearing under the grass. Without seeming to busy herself about me, she sought constantly to give me pleasure. When I entered my room I was often surprised to find there vases of fresh flowers, or some fine fruit that she had herself tended. I did not venture to return such services, and I even entreated her never to enter my chamber. But who can limit a sister’s affection? A single instance will give you an idea of her tender kindness to me. One night I was walking up and down my cell in an agony of pain. In the middle of the night, having sat down for a moment to rest myself, I heard a light step near the door of my room. I went towards it, and listened. Imagine my surprise! My sister was at the threshold engaged in prayer. She had heard my moans, and in her tenderness feared to trouble me, but had come within reach in case I might need her aid. I heard her saying the Miserere in a low tone. I knelt down near the door, and, without interrupting her, mentally followed her words. My eyes filled with tears: and who would not have been moved by such affection? When I thought her prayer was ended, “Adieu, my sister,” I said softly, “stay no longer; I feel a little better; may God bless and reward you for your goodness.” She withdrew in silence; and without doubt her prayer was answered, for I at last got a few hours of tranquil sleep.

How mournful the days must have seemed to you that followed the death of this dear sister!

For a long time a sort of stupor took from me the sense of the full extent of my misfortune. When at length I came to myself and I was able to understand my position, I nearly lost my reason. This epoch of my life will always be doubly sad to me; it reminds me of my deepest sorrow, and of the crime which nearly resulted from it.

A crime! I cannot think you could be capable of one.

Nevertheless, it is but too true. And when I relate to you this episode of my history, I know too well I shall lose much of your esteem. But I do not wish to paint myself as better than I am; and while you condemn me, you will perhaps pity me. In some of my fits of melancholy, the idea had already presented itself of voluntarily escaping from this life; but the fear of God had made me drive the thought away. A circumstance, however, arose which, simple as it was in itself and in all appearance not at all calculated to trouble me, nearly wrought my ruin. I had just had a fresh vexation. Some years before, a little dog had made its home with us; my sister had been fond of him, and I assure you that after her death the poor animal was quite a comfort to me.

To his ugliness no doubt we owed his choice of our dwelling as a place of refuge. He had been driven off by everybody else; but he was a treasure in the home of the Leper. In recognition of the favour God had bestowed upon us in giving us this friend, my sister called him Miracle; and his name, which contrasted with his ugliness, and his constant drollery, often diverted our thoughts from our troubles. Notwithstanding the care I took of him, he sometimes got away; but I never thought this could be a source of harm to anyone. Some of the townspeople, however, took fright, thinking he might carry among them the germs of my disorder; so they determined to complain to the governor, who ordered my dog to be killed at once. Soldiers, accompanied by some of the inhabitants, came here forthwith to execute this cruel order. They put a cord round his neck in my presence, and dragged him away. When he was at the garden-gate I could not help looking at him once more. I saw him turn his eyes towards me, as if to ask for the help which I was unable to give. They intended to drown him in the Doire; but the rabble, who were waiting for him outside, stoned him to death. I heard his cries, and went into my tower more dead than alive. My trembling knees sank under me; and I threw myself upon my bed in a state no words can describe. My distress prevented my seeing in that just but harsh order aught but an atrocious and useless barbarity; and although I am now ashamed of the feelings that then possessed me, I cannot even yet think of it coolly. I spent the whole day in the greatest agitation. The only living being left me had been torn from me; and this fresh blow opened all the wounds of my heart.

Such was my condition when, on the same day, towards sunset, I sat down here, on the very stone upon which you are now sitting. I had been some time musing upon my sad lot, when, down yonder, near those two birch trees, at the end of the hedgerow, I saw appear a young newly-married couple. They came along the path across the meadow, and passed close to me. That sweet tranquillity which the conscious possession of happiness inspires, was depicted upon their beautiful countenances. They walked slowly, hand in hand. Suddenly I saw them stop. The young woman rested her head the shoulder ofher husband, who embraced her in a transport of joy. A choking sensation oppressed me. Shall I confess it? Jealousy stole for the first time into my heart. Never before had the image of happiness presented itself to me with such force. I followed them with my eyes to the end of the meadow, and the trees were just hiding them from view, when shouts of merriment fell upon my ear. Their relations had come to meet them; and soon they were surrounded by women and children and aged men. I heard a confused murmur of joy arise. I saw between the trees the gay colours of holiday clothes, and the whole group seemed to move in an atmosphere of happiness. The sight was intolerable. Hell torments entered my soul. I turned away my eyes, and rushed into my cell. “O God! how lonely, how gloomy, how terrible, it seemed to me! Am I never to know any dwelling but this?” I said. Must I drag on here my wretched existence, while I await the tardy end of my days? The Almighty has showered happiness upon every living creature, while I⁠—I alone! helpless, friend less, companionless.⁠ ⁠… O frightful destiny!

Full of these sad thoughts, I forgot the existence of any source of consolation; I forgot my own self. “Why,” I asked, “was light bestowed upon me? Why is nature unjust and harsh to me alone? Like a disinherited son, I have under my eyes the rich patrimony of the human family⁠—but Heaven grudges me my share. No, no,” at length I exclaimed, in the violence of my rage, “earth has no happiness for thee! Die, wretched creature! Long enough has the earth been defiled by thy presence; would that it might open and bury thee alive, and leave no trace of thy hateful existence!” My unreasoning fury increased, and with it the desire to destroy myself, which took possession of me and arrested all my thoughts. At last I determined upon setting fire to my dwelling, and burning myself with what ever could recall my memory. Goaded by madness, I rushed into the fields, and wandered for some time in the dark round about my habitation. Involuntary moans rose from my crushed heart, and horrified me as they disturbed the silence of the night. I reentered, my fury undiminished, into my dwelling, crying out; “Woe on thee, Leper! Woe on thee!” And, as if everything was to contribute to my undoing, I heard the echo from the midst of the ruins of Bramafan Castle answer clearly, “Woe on thee!” I stopped, horror struck, at the door of the tower, and the echo from the mountain repeated, in feebler accents, “Woe on thee!”

I took a lamp, and determined to set my house on fire. I went into the lowest room, taking with me vine-cuttings and dry branches. This was my sister’s room, which I had not entered since her death. Her armchair was just where it stood when I lifted her from it for the last time. A shudder passed over me as my eyes fell upon her veil and other articles of clothing that lay scattered about the room. Her last words came back to my mind:⁠—“I will not forsake you when I die; remember that I shall be with you in your sufferings.” Resting the lamp on the table, I saw the string of the cross she used to wear round her neck, and which she had herself placed between two leaves of her bible. At this sight I drew back, overcome by religious awe. The depth of the abyss into which I had been on the point of hurling myself presented itself to my opened eyes. I approached, tremblingly, the sacred book. “This,” said I, “is surely the aid she promised me!” And as I drew the cross from the book, I found there a sealed paper which my dear sister had left there for me. My tears, which grief had hitherto restrained, streamed in torrents from my eyes; and all my dark projects vanished. Long did I press that precious letter to my breast before I was able to read it; and, falling on my knees to ask the divine blessing, I opened it, and read, as I sobbed, these words, which will always remain engraven on my heart: “Dear brother, I shall soon leave you, but I will never forsake you. From heaven, whither I hope to go, I will watch over you, and will pray God to give you courage to bear life with resignation, until it shall please Him to reunite us in another world, where I shall be able to show you my affection, where nothing can sever us. I leave you the little cross I have worn all my life. It has often consoled me in grief, and was the sole witness of my tears. Whenever you look at it, remember that it was my last prayer that you should live and die a good Christian.” Beloved letter! Never will I part from it. I shall carry it with me to my grave; and it will open to me those heavenly gates which my crime might have closed against me forever. When I had finished reading it, I felt my strength fail me, exhausted by all I had gone through. A cloud seemed to spread over my sight, and for some time I became unconscious of my sufferings, and even of my existence. When I came to myself, the night was far advanced. As my consciousness returned, I experienced an inexpressible feeling of peace. All that had passed during the evening appeared a dream. My first act was to raise my eyes to heaven in gratitude for my preservation from the greatest of evils. Never had the sky looked so serene and beautiful. A single star glistened before my window. I contemplated it long with indescribable pleasure, thanking God for giving me the delight of watching it; and I felt a secret consolation in thinking that one of its rays was destined to enliven the sad cell of the Leper.

I returned to my room much quieted, and spent the rest of the night in reading the book of Job. It breathed into my soul a holy enthusiasm, which dissipated what trace was left of the dark thoughts that had beset me. These terrible times were unknown to me while my sister lived: the knowledge that she was near calmed me, and the thought of her affection sufficed to console and cheer me.

Compassionate stranger! May God preserve you from the necessity of living alone! My sister, my companion, is no more; but Heaven will give me strength to endure life bravely; for this, at least, I may hope, for I pray for it with heartfelt sincerity.

How old was your sister when you lost her?

She was not quite twenty-five years old; but her sufferings had made her look older. In spite of the malady of which she died, and which altered the expression of her features, she would still have been beautiful had it not been for the dreadful pallor that disfigured her. She was the image of living death; I could not see her without a groan.

You lost her very young!

Her feeble and sensitive constitution could not resist so many trials. For some time I had seen that her end was drawing near, and her condition was so sad, that I could not but hope it might be so. As I watched her daily languishing and sinking, I saw with a sort of terrible satisfaction the close of her sufferings approach. For about a month she had been growing weaker and weaker; and frequent fainting-fits threatened her life from hour to hour. One evening, towards the beginning of August, she appeared so exhausted that I did not like to leave her. She was sitting in her armchair, not having been able to lie down in her bed for some days. I seated myself by her side, and in the profound darkness we conversed together for the last time. A cruel presentiment agitated me, and I could not restrain my tears. “Why do you weep?” she asked. “Why do you distress yourself so? I will not leave you for a moment; I shall be with you in your sufferings.”

A little while afterwards, she expressed a wish to be taken outside the tower, and to offer up her prayers in her hazel copse where she used to spend the greater part of the time in fine weather. “I should like to see the sky,” she said, “when I am dying.” But I did not think her last hour was so near. I passed my arm round her, to raise her, but she said, “Let me lean on you, I think I shall be able to walk.” I led her slowly among the nut-trees, and made a seat of the dry leaves that had been collected by her own hand; and, having covered her with a veil to keep off the damp night air, I placed myself near her. But she desired to be alone in her last meditation, and I went to a distance without quite losing sight of her. I saw that she lifted her veil from time to time, and stretched her white hands towards the sky. When after a while I approached the copse, she asked for a little water; I took her some in a cup; she moistened her lips, but could not drink. “I feel that I am dying,” she said, turning her head aside; “my thirst will soon be quenched forever. Support me, my brother; aid me to take the longed-for but awful step. Let me lean against you while you say the prayer for the dying.” These were the last words she spoke to me. I rested her head on my breast, and said the prayer for the dying. “Pass to eternity, my dear sister,” I said; “free yourself from this life; leave this earthly vestment in my arms.” For three hours I thus supported her in nature’s last struggle. The flame of life was at last quietly extinguished, and her soul was released from the earth without an effort.

The Leper, having ended his narrative, covered his face with his hands. The traveller was speechless with sorrow. After a few moments’ silence the Leper arose. “Stranger,” said he, “when grief or disappointment shall come upon you, think of the hermit of the city of Aosta, and your visit to him will not have been useless.” They walked along together towards the gate of the garden. When the officer was on the point of passing through it, he put his glove on his right hand. “You have never shaken a human being by the hand; grant me the favour of shaking hands with me, for mine is the hand of a friend who takes a lively interest in your sad lot.” The Leper drew back for a moment as if startled; then, raising his eyes and hands to heaven, “Loving Father,” he cried, “pour thy blessings upon this compassionate man!”

“One other request I have to make,” continued the traveller. “I am about to leave these parts; and it will, perhaps, be very long before we meet again. Could we not write to one another sometimes, if proper precautions were taken? This might be a source of distraction to you, and would give me much pleasure.”

The Leper paused for some time. “Why,” said he at length, “should I delude myself? I am destined to have no other society than my own, no other friend than God. In Him we shall meet again. Farewell, kindhearted stranger, may you be happy⁠ ⁠… Farewell forever.”

The traveller withdrew. The Leper closed and fastened the gate.