The black Place of Desolation.—Blue Sky.—Open Heavens.—The Glory of the Sunshine.—Green Hills.—The open Sea once more.—Along the Road.—A strange, a very strange Encounter.—The Wandering Leper.—Naaman the Syrian.
PANTING heavily, and almost fainting with exhaustion, Phil drifted on, clinging with a convulsive grasp to his log, and scarce conscious of his surroundings. It was the current that now guided him, for he for some time was incapable of making any effort to guide himself. Several times he instinctively thrust his head under the water; and each time, though this did not ease his breathing, it at least caused relief by the grateful coolness and the drip of the water over his face. Drifting on in this way, he remained for some time without noticing the shores on either side, too much taken up with his own sensations to regard any external things. He had a general idea that the fires were all around him still; but he no longer sought with his former eager scrutiny to find some signs favorable to his own hopes.

But at length he regained his breath, and began once more to look around. The first thing that he noticed was, that the heat had very materially lessened. The next thing was, that the land of the fiery glow had passed away. Around him there was now, not a fiery country, but a black and devastated country, out of which smoke was still arising in places, but from which the fire had departed, having done its work. He now saw that while he had been in a half senseless state he had been carried along; that the current had drifted him away from the place where the fire was now raging, to a place where it raged no longer—to a place where the air was cooler—where it was purer—where the smoke was much diminished. All around, and all before, the country was black, and there arose a forest of charred and blackened trees; but this sight, hideous though it might be in itself, was inexpressibly delightful to eyes that had just gazed upon the fire in its wrath.

He began to understand his position now. This was the very thing that he had hoped for when first he ventured to make the passage. His hope had been realized. The fire was advancing up the stream. He had passed the front line of flame, the second line of fire, and now reached the blackened and desolate tract that lay in the rear of the conflagration. Here the hot breath of the fire existed no longer. Here the air was purer—it grew cooler at every yard of his progress forward.

It was, probably, this cooler air that had revived him, and given him back the breath that he had nearly lost forever at that time of his struggle near the falling tree.

He looked up. The smoke was thinner overhead. Before him the skies were brighter, and in one place the glorious blue of heaven was discernible. It was the first bit of blue sky that he had seen since first he entered these ill-omened woods; and it seemed to him to be the harbinger of safety, and liberty, and life. His whole soul roused itself in joyous hope; the last vestige of his dismay and despondency departed, and even his weakness and bodily languor left him. He gave a cry of joy; he breathed a prayer of thankfulness to the merciful One who had preserved him from a terrible fate; and then, grasping his float with a strong and nervous clutch, he once more put forth his efforts to quicken his progress, and struck out with strong and rapid strokes.

Every moment his prospects increased. The smoke faded away more and more, and the blue sky unfolded itself, until at last the glorious sun burst forth to view, and threw upon him those bright and gladdening rays to which he had been a stranger for so many days. There came up also a breeze, and it fanned his flushed face, bringing healing on its wings; and as he inhaled it there seemed in it something which was like a new life, something which gave new strength and energy to the body, and new joy and hope to the soul. At last he could breathe freely. The air had lost all that oppressiveness which it had so long had. No longer was there perceptible the abhorrent smell of smoke. He had emerged from the fire and the smoke, and wherever he was, he had at least left these things behind. He had no idea where he was, or whither he was going; it was enough for him to know that he had escaped from the fire and the woods.

He had been long in the water, but he had no desire to leave it. The land was not inviting, while his present mode of progress was easy and agreeable. He chose, therefore, to drift on until he should reach some place where he might rest.

At length there appeared before him something green. It looked like the foliage of trees. It rose above the black land and the charred stumps of the burnt district, and seemed to be some place which the fire had not reached. Was it some green oasis in this desert of devastation, or was it some new forest as boundless, as uninhabited, and as desolate as the one in which he had been lost? At that moment it mattered not to him what it was, so long as it was some place that was free from the touch of fire.

Onward he drifted, and the stream took a turn, and swept forward. Here the green foliage appeared full before him. It was of no great extent. Beyond it there was no vast forest, but only the sky. It seemed as though in one place there might be a broad plain, so low did it lie, and so open was it, and bare of trees. This place he watched with the most eager scrutiny. To this he came nearer and nearer. The space broadened every moment, until at last he thought that it must indeed be a wide plain—if plain it was.

Nearer he drew and nearer. Then, at length, a suspicion came to his mind that startled him greatly. Nearer he came, and nearer, and the suspicion changed to reality, for there, full before him, lay nothing less than the sea!

The sea!

Yes, the sea! The river ran into a harbor. The harbor opened out into the sea. It was not a bay. It was the sea, with the distant horizon touching the sky. Before he had reached the green spot, he came to a place where a bridge had been, and of which nothing now remained but some charred timbers. This showed him that he could not be very far from human habitations. A little below this he reached the green spot, and, landing here, he loosened his clothes from the log, and dressed himself. They were wet; but his watch was still ticking bravely, and marked three o’clock. His matches were also dry, and a piece of trout left from his morning’s repast was still there unharmed. This he ate with an eager appetite.

He spread out his wet coat upon the grass, and lay down by it, and, while resting, deliberated about what he ought next to do. Where he was he had not the faintest idea. He could not be on the Bay de Chaleur, for then the opposite shore would be visible; but here there was no shore opposite. He thought that it must be the Gulf of St. Lawrence. If so, then that bridge must belong to the road that ran along the shore, and settlements could not be very far away.

He was now too impatient to rest any longer, and was so eager to find out where the road led to, that he took his half-dried coat over his arm, and started off towards the burnt bridge. The road here seemed to be pretty well travelled, and the sight of this stimulated still more his desire of reaching some house; so he at once set off.

He walked for about a mile, through a district that had been burnt, and then came to the seashore again. Here the trees were green, and there were no signs of fire. There was a cool and refreshing breeze now from off the sea, and the hope of finding a house stimulated him to such a degree that he maintained a rapid walk for at least another mile.

And now, as he ascended a slight elevation, he saw a figure, on the road before him, advancing towards him. It was a boy that he saw. He was walking wearily, and seemed both tired and dejected. He was looking at the ground.

Phil hurried towards him. The boy did not notice him till he had come quite close. Then he looked up.

As Phil saw that face, he stood for a moment speechless with amazement and delight.

It was Pat!

“Pat!” he cried. “Pat!”

He could say no more. Tears of joy started to his eyes. He grasped Pat’s hand in his, and looked at him, completely overcome. He was too deeply agitated to notice Pat’s face or manner, but stood overcome by his own emotions.

“So you’ve been after me,” said Phil. “Where are the rest of them? Where’s Bart? How did you get here? What place is this? Only think of my getting out here—and only a few minutes ago—and then meeting with you! But where are the others? Come, I’m crazy to see Bart. I declare I never was so utterly confounded in my life! But what’s the matter with you?”

In the midst of Phil’s eager torrent of exclamations and questions, he was struck by something very peculiar in Pat’s face, and in Pat’s manner, and ended all with this abrupt question.

In fact, Pat’s appearance was very peculiar.

His face was pale, and had an anxious expression. His eyes, generally so merry, and open, and frank, were now furtive and suspicious; and instead of showing any pleasure at the sight of Phil, he started back, and snatched his hand away.

At Phil’s question Pat gave a very heavy sigh, and made no answer.

“Pat, Pat, what is the matter?” cried Phil again. “Has anything happened? Where’s Bart? What is the matter?”

“Matther,” muttered Pat. “Matther enough, surely, as ye’ll know to yer sorra.”

At this Phil stared at him in amazement. Pat was so totally changed from his former self, that he couldn’t comprehend it at all.

“Come, Pat,” said he, “don’t keep me in suspense. I see by your manner that some horrible thing has happened to some of you. Which is it? Is it Bart?”

Pat shook his head.

“It’s me,” said he, in a dismal voice. “Me. I’m the one.”

“You! Why, what do you mean?”

“I’m a leper!” wailed Pat.

“You, what? You’re what? What are you talking about?”

“You’ll know soon enough. An maybe ye’ll find out from shakin my hand the way ye did jist now.”

“Shaking your hand!”

“Yis,” said Pat. “Ayven the touch of me’s on-whowlsome, so it is. An I’ve got that on me that’s goin to be the death of me afore long, so it is.”

“See here, Pat,” cried Phil, anxiously. “Tell me what’s the matter, like a good fellow. You make me horribly anxious. What do you mean?”

“Och, sure, an what’s the use? Didn’t I say it? What are ye tormentin me for to say it again? Haven’t I just run away whin it’s too late intirely? An the leprosy’s tuk, so it has!”

“The—the what? What’s that?” asked Phil. “Sure an haven’t I been sayin that it’s a leper I am,” cried Pat, despairingly.

“A leper!” repeated Phil, who began to think that poor Pat was quite insane, and wondered what he ought to do with him under the circumstances.

“I’ve happened among lepers,” said Pat. “I’ve bathed in the leper wather—an that’s the way I tuk it. I’ve ate wid the leper praste; an Bart’s wid him now—in the wuds—they’re huntin afther you; but I ran for it—for I was hopin to get away before the leprosy tuk—but tuk it did—in spite of me; and that’s all about it.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Phil, in bewilderment, for Pat’s remarks had some degree of connectedness, and did not sound quite like insanity except his allusions to leprosy. “I don’t understand,” said he, “what you mean about leprosy.”

“Sure it’s the Lazaretto, at Tracadie, I mean. I got the leprosy by bathin, so I did—an aitin wid the leper praste.”

“You’ll have to explain. This is all nonsense. Come, Pat, don’t make a fool of yourself. You’ve got some absurd idea in your head, Come, tell me all about it, for I can’t make it out at all, you know.”

“Well, it’s this way,” said Pat, with undiminished dolefulness; “ony don’t be kapin too nair me if ye vally yer life—this was the way of it. Ye see we wandhered about the wuds afther ye, an sure enough before we knowed it we got lost ourselves. Well, we wandhered about, and at last we come out in a place they call Tracadie, an bad luck to it. So we mit a praste that was all smiles and blarney, an he tuk us to his house an gave us fud. Well, thin, I wint out for a walk, an I see a bit of wather, an wint to it to have a bit of a swim. Well, I come to a onwhowlsome lookin place, wid ghosts of people in it, that wud fairly make yer blood run cowld to look at, an I stared at thim, an walked right close to thim, an brathed their brith, an walked over their ground, an wint on to the wather, an ondrissed, an wint in. An I shwam there nearly an hour, an thin I wint back, an what do ye think the praste towld me.”

“What?” asked Phil.

“Sure, he up an he towld us that the onwhowlsome lookin house wor a lazaretto, an the ghosts of people there wor lepers—nothin else—an he said he wor the leper praste, an spint the most of his time wid thim same—sittin wid thim—talkin wid thim—feelin thim—handlin thim—an brathin the poison leper air. An he towld us that the wather was the leper wather, where the lepers bathed. An I had bathed there,” cried Pat, with a burst of despair. “An I’d tuk a shwirn there,” he cried, with another burst. “An I’d been in the house of the leper praste,”—a groan—“an I’d sat on his chairs,”—another groan—“an I’d ate at his table,”—a howl—“an I’d swallowed his fud,”—another howl—“an I’d been gettin the leprosy meself all the time,” and a cry that was something like a yell of despair terminated Pat’s story.

Phil listened to all this, and felt puzzled.

“I don’t know what you mean by lazarettos,” said he, “and lepers. I did’nt know the disease was in this country.”

“Well, it is, thin,” moaned Pat. “An I’ll soon be there too, so I will.”

“Nonsense,” said Phil, impatiently. “Did you ask the priest if there was any danger?”

“Och, sure he wouldn’t be afther committin himsilf.”

“Didn’t he say anything about it?”

“He did, thin.”

“What did he say?”

“Why, he said he had lived among the lepers all his life, an visited thim almost every day; but wor as well a man as anybody. An he said the disease couldn’t be caught.”

“Did he say that?” cried Phil. “Why, of course. I knew that. You are mistaken altogether.”

“Sure, an how does the praste know? His time’ll come yit, so it will.”

“Nonsense! This isn’t the real leprosy, at all. It’s some disease that’s hereditary, I dare say; but it isn’t contagious. Pooh! how absurd! Why, Pat, what could have put such a notion into your head. The leper water is all nonsense. What harm could it do you to bathe in the sea? If all the lepers in the world were bathing at the same time, they couldn’t affect the sea water.”

Phil now began to reason with Pat, and he spoke so earnestly and so confidently, that at last Pat’s fears began to yield. Phil showed him that he couldn’t possibly have the leprosy yet, and assured him that he wasn’t going to have it. Finally, he told him the story of the most famous of all lepers—Naaman the Syrian. From this story he proved so conclusively that there were some kinds of leprosy that were not contagious, that Pat hadn’t a word to say. The story produced a profound and most beneficial effect upon Pat’s mind.

“Sure an I niver thought of him before. Why didn’t I think of ould Naymin? An him the chafe gineral of the Misaypytamyins, so he was. Sure an there wer nothin contagious in that leprosy. The leper Naymin! Sure an what a fool I wor niver to think of the leper Naymin!”