suddenly began to talk as if in some oblique way he were trying to apologize for not keeping Covenant in the hospital. “It must be hell to be a leper,” he said rapidly. “I'm trying to understand. It's like I studied in Heidelberg, years ago, and while I was there I saw a lot of medieval art. Especially religious art. Being a leper reminds me of statues of the Crucifixion made during the Middle Ages. There is Christ on the Cross, and his features-his body, even his face-are portrayed so blandly that the figure is unrecognizable. It could be anyone, man or woman. But the wounds-the nails in the hands and feet, the spear in the side, the crown of thorns-are carved and even painted in incredibly vivid detail. You would think the artist crucified his model to get that kind of realism.
“Being a leper must be like that.”
Covenant felt the doctor's sympathy, but he could not reply to it. He did not know how.
After a few minutes, an ambulance came and took him back to Haven Farm.
He had survived.
He walked up the long driveway to his house as if that were his only hope.
