“Besides a general hospital we have likewise a leper-house,” said the bookseller.  “Shall I show it you?  We have everything at Saint James.  There is nothing lacking; the very leper finds an inn here.”  “I have no objection to your showing me the house,” I replied, “but it must be at a distance, for enter it I will not.”  Thereupon he conducted me down the road which leads towards Padron and Vigo, and pointing to two or three huts, exclaimed “That is our leper-house.”  “It appears a miserable place,” I replied:  “what accommodation may there be for the patients, and who attends to their wants?” “They are left to themselves,” answered the bookseller, “and probably sometimes perish from neglect:  the place at one time was endowed and had rents which were appropriated to its support, but even these have been sequestered during the late troubles.  At present, the least unclean of the lepers generally takes his station by the road side, and begs for the rest.  See there he is now.”

And sure enough the leper in his shining scales, and half naked, was seated beneath a ruined wall.  We dropped money into the hat of the unhappy being, and passed on.

“A bad disorder that,” said my friend.  “I confess that I, who have seen so many of them, am by no means fond of the company of lepers.  Indeed, I wish that they would never enter my shop, as they occasionally do to beg.  Nothing is more infectious, as I have heard, than leprosy:  there is one very virulent species, however, which is particularly dreaded here, the elephantine:  those who die of it should, according to law, be burnt, and their ashes scattered to the winds:  for if the body of such a leper be interred in the field of the dead, the disorder is forthwith communicated to all the corses even below the earth.  Such, at least, is our idea in these parts.  Lawsuits are at present pending from the circumstance of elephantides having been buried with the other dead.  Sad is leprosy in all its forms, but most so when elephantine.”

“Talking of corses,” said I, “do you believe that the bones of St. James are veritably interred at Compostella?”

“What can I say,” replied the old man; “you know as much of the matter as myself.  Beneath the high altar is a large stone slab or lid, which is said to cover the mouth of a profound well, at the bottom of which it is believed that the bones of the saint are interred; though why they should be placed at the bottom of a well, is a mystery which I cannot fathom.  One of the officers of the church told me that at one time he and another kept watch in the church during the night, one of the chapels having shortly before been broken open and a sacrilege committed.  At the dead of night, finding the time hang heavy on their hands, they took a crowbar and removed the slab and looked down into the abyss below; it was dark as the grave; whereupon they affixed a weight to the end of a long rope and lowered it down.  At a very great depth it seemed to strike against something dull and solid like lead:  they supposed it might be a coffin; perhaps it was, but whose is the question.”