three old geese, who walked out past the guard with impunity, were free to
go and come, as they had never been known to have the plague. Yesterday
evening the medical attendant, a Polish physician, came in to inspect us,
but he made a very hasty review, looking down on us from the top of a high
horse.


_Monday, April_ 19.

Eureka! the whole thing is explained. Talking to day with the guardiano,
he happened to mention that he had been three years in Quarantine, keeping
watch over infected travellers. "What!" said I, "you have been sick three
years." "Oh no," he replied; "I have never been sick at all." "But are not
people sick in Quarantine?" "_Stafferillah!_" he exclaimed; "they are
always in better health than the people outside." "What is Quarantine for,
then?" I persisted. "What is it for?" he repeated, with a pause of blank
amazement at my ignorance, "why, to get money from the travellers!"
Indiscreet guardiano! It were better to suppose ourselves under suspicion
of the plague, than to have such an explanation of the mystery. Yet, in
spite of the unpalatable knowledge, I almost regret that this is our last
day in the establishment. The air is so pure and bracing, the views from
our windows so magnificent, the colonized branch of the Beyrout Hotel so
comfortable, that I am content to enjoy this pleasant idleness--the more
pleasant since, being involuntary, it is no weight on the conscience. I
look up to the Maronite villages, perched on the slopes of Lebanon, with
scarce a wish to climb to them, or turning to the sparkling Mediterranean,
view

"The speronara's sail of snowy hue
Whitening and brightening on that field of blue,"