There were muffled footsteps upon the druggetted landing. The Sisters
were already kneeling, two black-robed, white-wimpled, motionless
images of Prayer. The Mayor of Zeiden, a devout Catholic, hastily
crossed himself and knelt down. The delegate from the State Council of
Widinitz followed his example--the municipal councillors backing, in
exquisite discomfort and embarrassment, against the white-papered wall.
The manager of the Home and his chief assistant entered. Each carried
a lighted candle in a tall silver candlestick. Their faces were
common, ordinary faces, dignified by an expression of absorbed careful
attention rather than devoutness. The tall, bulky, bald, aged man who
followed them was not the priest who usually confessed the patient, but
an ecclesiastic in the violet cassock that is distinctive of a Cardinal
of the Church of Rome. His nervous, energetic-looking hands were folded
against his breast; a great amethyst upon the forefinger of the right
gleamed purple and rose between the wavering yellow flame of the tapers
and the keen dazzle of the autumn sunshine that bathed the lovely
landscape seen beyond the lofty windows. His face--pale, heavily-jowled
and with the jutting underlip of an orator and a statesman--was
absorbed, and rapt, and set. And, keeping his hands always folded over
Something hidden in his bosom, he moved forwards slowly, continuously,
as St. Christopher might have waded the drift of the icy black river,
bearing the world’s Redeemer. The kneeling Catholics received the
episcopal benediction, the cold blue rapier-points of the Cardinal’s
keen eyes flashing, as he raised the fingers that bestowed it, at the
two standing figures by the wall. A single finger waved, and there
was a change. The silver candlesticks, with their burning tapers,
now added to the illumination upon the temporary altar, the room was
emptied of all human presence save the stately, imposing figure of the
ecclesiastic and scarcely-breathing form upon the bed.
* * * * *
You saw the tall, bulky figure bend over the prone form. The sunk,
sealed eyelids twitched and lifted. Recognition flashed in the great
black eyes. The Cardinal said low and distinctly:
“My son, the priest who was to administer the Last Sacraments
has been seized with sudden illness. Knowing me to be staying at
Mölkenzell--where I have been taking the whey-cure--he telegraphed,
entreating me to supply his place.” He added: “And I hesitated not to
come--for it may be that Our Lord requires of you this act of final
obedience. Will you consent to receive His Body from the hands of one
who has been your enemy, but who has already humbly entreated your
forgiveness--who renews his penitence at this final hour?”
With a great effort the dying man faltered:
“Yes!”
Then tears dimmed the eyes that had lost their brilliance, the hollow
cheeks palpitated--the chin quivered--Old Hector wept.... And the
visitor soothed him, bending over the pillow, and the Confession was
completed; the thready, breathless whispers of the penitent replying to
the resonant undertones of the priest.
He received Absolution then, and the Final Blessing. The noiseless nuns
stole back at the sound of the strong, resonant voice rolling out the
glorious Latin sentences--the Mayor and the delegate returned.... You
are to see the dying body asperged with the holy water, the dying mouth
fed with the Blessed Sacrament for the nourishment and support of the
soul upon its awful journey over the great Unknown Desert, that I who
write, and you who read must travel before very long.
Extreme Unction followed the Communion of the Dying. And as the sacred
rite went on, an awful sternness settled over the grave old aquiline
face. All the long life of Hector Dunoisse lay unrolled as a map before
his mental vision. He hung poised on albatross-wings above his past.
He knew as he lay speechless, sightless, scarcely sentient under the
deft ministering hands, listening as the deep, melodious voice of
Holy Church spoke for the penitent in accents of contrition, judged,
rebuked, condemned, pardoned for God,--he knew how great a burden were
his trespasses, how small a pack his justifications. He appraised,
he valued, he weighed.... And, weighing, he was made aware how Self,
in the opposing scale of the just balance, weighed down the seeming
stately pile of noble sacrifices made and good deeds done for Heaven.
Ah! little wonder that the grand old face grew sterner and sterner as
the Sacrament reached its close, and he who ministered by the deathbed,
passed to the Recommendation of the Departing Soul.
Do you know it, that tremendous valediction following the brief
Litany, that calls upon One Who vanquished Death and trod down the
powers of Hell under His Feet, to deliver and save? To pardon sin,
remit the pains of present and future punishment, open the gates of
Paradise--welcome the wanderer home?...
“Go forth, O Christian soul! from this world. In the Name of God the
Father Almighty, Who created thee; in the Name of Jesus Christ, the
Son of the Living God, Who suffered for thee; in the Name of the Holy
Ghost, Who was poured out upon thee; in the Name of the Angels and
Archangels; in the Names of the Cherubim and Seraphim; in the Names
of the Patriarchs and Prophets; in the Names of the Holy Martyrs and
Confessors; in the Names of the Holy Monks and Hermits; in the Names of
the Holy Virgins and all the Saints of God, may thy place be this day
in peace!... Per Christum Dominum! Amen.”
It was quiet, very quiet, the passing of this soul. The grand old face
grew sterner, sterner. The jaw dropped--the great dim black eyes turned
slightly upwards under the thin, withered lids. The sweat of death
rolled shining down the dark-veined hollows of the temples: bathed
the icy body.... He was gone.... The Cardinal said the final prayers,
sprinkled the body with holy water, placed a small crucifix upon
the pulseless breast, stooped above the pillow, and kissed the cold
forehead, ere he withdrew, followed by the two visitors, leaving the
Little Sisters of the Poor to complete their pious task.