“Absolution, father, for breath is fleeting fast,” cried the dying man,
in a scarce audible voice. As the monk approached the bed, the sick man
started from his pillow, and, with clenched hands and straining eyes,
uttered, in a low, sepulchral tone, “Avaunt! avaunt, thou damning fiend!
thine hour is not yet come. Oh, mercy! mercy!” His bosom heaved
convulsively, the dew of agony gathered thick upon his brow, and, with a
beseeching look, he pointed to the crucifix on the wall.
“Confession alone can save you, my son. While there is yet time, relieve
your bosom of its load of sin, and seek for pardon.”
“_Too late!_ oh, lost forever! The hour approaches; come near.” Drawing
from under his pillow a parchment, he placed it in the hands of the
monk. “My confession, father; _now_, now, sign me with the cross.”
Uttering a wild cry of anguish, the dying man, with desperate energy,
flung himself towards the monk, and attempted to grasp the symbol of
salvation. . . . . . A vivid, lurid gleam, followed by an astounding
crash, mingled with horrid yells and piercing screams! When the monk was
found by a lay brother, he still breathed, but unconscious of external
objects, from which state he never recovered; the bed was empty, and the
bedclothes lay in wild disorder, as if torn by a mighty struggle. In the
hand of the prostrate monk was found a manuscript: