In the town of Garchester, close to St. Peter's Church, and near the
river, stood a dark old house called the Slype House, from a narrow
passage of that name that ran close to it, down to a bridge over the
stream. The house showed a front of mouldering and discoloured stone
to the street, pierced by small windows, like a monastery; and indeed,
it was formerly inhabited by a college of priests who had served the
Church. It abutted at one angle upon the aisle of the church, and
there was a casement window that looked out from a room in the house,
formerly the infirmary, into the aisle; it had been so built that any
priest that was sick might hear the Mass from his bed, without
descending into the church. Behind the house lay a little garden,
closely grown up with trees and tall weeds, that ran down to the
stream. In the wall that gave on the water, was a small door that
admitted to an old timbered bridge that crossed the stream, and had a
barred gate on the further side, which was rarely seen open; though if
a man had watched attentively he might sometimes have seen a small
lean person, much bowed and with a halting gait, slip out very quietly
about dusk, and walk, with his eyes cast down, among the shadowy
byways.
The name of the man who thus dwelt in the Slype House, as it appeared
in the roll of burgesses, was Anthony Purvis. He was of an ancient
family, and had inherited wealth. A word must be said of his childhood
and youth. He was a sickly child, an only son, his father a man of
substance, who lived very easily in the country; his mother had died
when he was quite a child, and this sorrow had been borne very heavily
by his father, who had loved her tenderly, and after her death had
become morose and sullen, withdrawing himself from all company and
exercise, and brooding angrily over his loss, as though God had
determined to vex him. He had never cared much for the child, who had
been peevish and fretful; and the boy's presence had done little but
remind him of the wife he had lost; so that the child had lived alone,
nourishing his own fancies, and reading much in a library of curious
books that was in the house. The boy's health had been too tender for
him to go to school; but when he was eighteen, he seemed stronger, and
his father sent him to a university, more for the sake of being
relieved of the boy's presence than for his good. And there, being
unused to the society of his equals, he had been much flouted and
despised for his feeble frame; till a certain bitter ambition sprang
up in his mind, like a poisonous flower, to gain power and make
himself a name; and he had determined that as he could not be loved he
might still be feared; so he bided his time in bitterness, making
great progress in his studies; then, when those days were over, he
departed eagerly, and sought and obtained his father's leave to betake
himself to a university of Italy, where he fell into somewhat evil
hands; for he made a friendship with an old doctor of the college, who
feared not God and thought ill of man, and spent all his time in dark
researches into the evil secrets of nature, the study of poisons that
have enmity to the life of man, and many other hidden works of
darkness, such as intercourse with spirits of evil, and the black
influences that lie in wait for the soul; and he found Anthony an apt
pupil. There he lived for some years till he was nearly thirty, seldom
visiting his home, and writing but formal letters to his father, who
supplied him gladly with a small revenue, so long as he kept apart and
troubled him not.
Then his father had died, and Anthony came home to take up his
inheritance, which was a plentiful one; he sold his land, and visiting
the town of Garchester, by chance, for it lay near his home, he had
lighted upon the Slype House, which lay very desolate and gloomy; and
as he needed a large place for his instruments and devices, he had
bought the house, and had now lived there for twenty years in great
loneliness, but not ill-content.
To serve him he had none but a man and his wife, who were quiet and
simple people and asked no questions; the wife cooked his meals, and
kept the rooms, where he slept and read, clean and neat; the man moved
his machines for him, and arranged his phials and instruments, having
a light touch and a serviceable memory.
The door of the house that gave on the street opened into a hall; to
the right was a kitchen, and a pair of rooms where the man and his
wife lived. On the left was a large room running through the house;
the windows on to the street were walled up, and the windows at the
back looked on the garden, the trees of which grew close to the
casements, making the room dark, and in a breeze rustling their leaves
or leafless branches against the panes. In this room Anthony had a
furnace with bellows, the smoke of which discharged itself into the
chimney; and here he did much of his work, making mechanical toys, as
a clock to measure the speed of wind or water, a little chariot that
ran a few yards by itself, a puppet that moved its arms and
laughed--and other things that had wiled away his idle hours; the room
was filled up with dark lumber, in a sort of order that would have
looked to a stranger like disorder, but so that Anthony could lay his
hand on all that he needed. From the hall, which was paved with stone,
went up the stairs, very strong and broad, of massive oak; under which
was a postern that gave on the garden; on the floor above was a room
where Anthony slept, which again had its windows to the street boarded
up, for he was a light sleeper, and the morning sounds of the
awakening city disturbed him.
The room was hung with a dark arras, sprinkled with red flowers; he
slept in a great bed with black curtains to shut out all light; the
windows looked into the garden; but on the left of the bed, which
stood with its head to the street, was an alcove, behind the hangings,
containing the window that gave on the church. On the same floor were
three other rooms; in one of these, looking on the garden, Anthony had
his meals. It was a plain panelled room. Next was a room where he
read, filled with books, also looking on the garden; and next to that
was a little room of which he alone had the key. This room he kept
locked, and no one set foot in it but himself. There was one more room
on this floor, set apart for a guest who never came, with a great bed
and a press of oak. And that looked on the street. Above, there was a
row of plain plastered rooms, in which stood furniture for which
Anthony had no use, and many crates in which his machines and phials
came to him; this floor was seldom visited, except by the man, who
sometimes came to put a box there; and the spiders had it to
themselves; except for a little room where stood an optic glass
through which on clear nights Anthony sometimes looked at the moon and
stars, if there was any odd misadventure among them, such as an
eclipse; or when a fiery-tailed comet went his way silently in the
heavens, coming from none might say whence and going none knew
whither, on some strange errand of God.
Anthony had but two friends who ever came to see him. One was an old
physician who had ceased to practise his trade, which indeed was never
abundant, and who would sometimes drink a glass of wine with Anthony,
and engage in curious talk of men's bodies and diseases, or look at
one of Anthony's toys. Anthony had come to know him by having called
him in to cure some ailment, which needed a surgical knife; and that
had made a kind of friendship between them; but Anthony had little
need thereafter to consult him about his health, which indeed was now
settled enough, though he had but little vigour; and he knew enough of
drugs to cure himself when he was ill. The other friend was a foolish
priest of the college, that made belief to be a student but was none,
who thought Anthony a very wise and mighty person, and listened with
open mouth and eyes to all that he said or showed him. This priest,
who was fond of wonders, had introduced himself to Anthony by making
believe to borrow a volume of him; and then had grown proud of the
acquaintance, and bragged greatly of it to his friends, mixing up much
that was fanciful with a little that was true. But the result was that
gossip spread wide about Anthony, and he was held in the town to be a
very fearful person, who could do strange mischief if he had a mind
to; Anthony never cared to walk abroad, for he was of a shy habit, and
disliked to meet the eyes of his fellows; but if he did go about, men
began to look curiously after him as he went by, shook their heads and
talked together with a dark pleasure, while children fled before his
face and women feared him; all of which pleased Anthony mightily, if
the truth were told; for at the bottom of his restless and eager
spirit lay a deep vanity unseen, like a lake in woods; he hungered not
indeed for fame, but for repute--_monstrari digito_, as the poet has
it; and he cared little in what repute he was held, so long as men
thought him great and marvellous; and as he could not win renown by
brave deeds and words, he was rejoiced to win it by keeping up a
certain darkness and mystery about his ways and doings; and this was
very dear to him, so that when the silly priest called him Seer and
Wizard, he frowned and looked sideways; but he laughed in his heart
and was glad.
Now, when Anthony was near his fiftieth year, there fell on him a
heaviness of spirit which daily increased upon him. He began to
question of his end and what lay beyond. He had always made pretence
to mock at religion, and had grown to believe that in death the soul
was extinguished like a burnt-out flame. He began, too, to question of
his life and what he had done. He had made a few toys, he had filled
vacant hours, and he had gained an ugly kind of fame--and this was
all. Was he so certain, he began to think, after all, that death was
the end? Were there not, perhaps, in the vast house of God, rooms and
chambers beyond that in which he was set for awhile to pace to and
fro? About this time he began to read in a Bible that had lain dusty
and unopened on a shelf. It was his mother's book, and he found
therein many little tokens of her presence. Here was a verse
underlined; at some gracious passages the page was much fingered and
worn; in one place there were stains that looked like the mark of
tears; then again, in one page, there was a small tress of hair,
golden hair, tied in a paper with a name across it, that seemed to be
the name of a little sister of his mother's that died a child; and
again there were a few withered flowers, like little sad ghosts, stuck
through a paper on which was written his father's name--the name of
the sad, harsh, silent man whom Anthony had feared with all his heart.
Had those two, indeed, on some day of summer, walked to and fro, or
sate in some woodland corner, whispering sweet words of love together?
Anthony felt a sudden hunger of the heart for a woman's love, for
tender words to soothe his sadness, for the laughter and kisses of
children--and he began to ransack his mind for memories of his mother;
he could remember being pressed to her heart one morning when she lay
abed, with her fragrant hair falling about him. The worst was that he
must bear his sorrow alone, for there were none to whom he could talk
of such things. The doctor was as dry as an old bunch of herbs, and as
for the priest, Anthony was ashamed to show anything but contempt and
pride in his presence.
For relief he began to turn to a branch of his studies that he had
long disused; this was a fearful commerce with the unseen spirits.
Anthony could remember having practised some experiments of this kind
with the old Italian doctor; but he remembered them with a kind of
disgust, for they seemed to him but a sort of deadly juggling; and
such dark things as he had seen seemed like a dangerous sport with
unclean and coltish beings, more brute-like than human. Yet now he
read in his curious books with care, and studied the tales of
necromancers, who had indeed seemed to have some power over the souls
of men departed. But the old books gave him but little faith, and a
kind of angry disgust at the things attempted. And he began to think
that the horror in which such men as made these books abode, was not
more than the dark shadow cast on the mirror of the soul by their own
desperate imaginings and timorous excursions.
One day, a Sunday, he was strangely sad and heavy; he could settle to
nothing, but threw book after book aside, and when he turned to some
work of construction, his hand seemed to have lost its cunning. It was
a grey and sullen day in October; a warm wet wind came buffeting up
from the west, and roared in the chimneys and eaves of the old house.
The shrubs in the garden plucked themselves hither and thither as
though in pain. Anthony walked to and fro after his midday meal, which
he had eaten hastily and without savour; at last, as though with a
sudden resolution, he went to a secret cabinet and got out a key; and
with it he went to the door of the little room that was ever locked.
He stopped at the threshold for a while, looking hither and thither;
and then he suddenly unlocked it and went in, closing and locking it
behind him. The room was as dark as night, but Anthony going softly,
his hands before him, went to a corner and got a tinder-box which lay
there, and made a flame.
A small dark room appeared, hung with a black tapestry; the window
was heavily shuttered and curtained; in the centre of the room stood
what looked like a small altar, painted black; the floor was all bare,
but with white marks upon it, half effaced. Anthony looked about the
room, glancing sidelong, as though in some kind of doubt; his breath
went and came quickly, and he looked paler than was his wont.
Presently, as though reassured by the silence and calm of the place,
he went to a tall press that stood in a corner, which he opened, and
took from it certain things--a dish of metal, some small leathern
bags, a large lump of chalk, and a book. He laid all but the chalk
down on the altar, and then opening the book, read in it a little; and
then he went with the chalk and drew certain marks upon the floor,
first making a circle, which he went over again and again with anxious
care; at times he went back and peeped into the book as though
uncertain. Then he opened the bags, which seemed to hold certain kinds
of powder, this dusty, that in grains; he ran them through his hands,
and then poured a little of each into his dish, and mixed them with
his hands. Then he stopped and looked about him. Then he walked to a
place in the wall on the further side of the altar from the door, and
drew the arras carefully aside, disclosing a little alcove in the
wall; into this he looked fearfully, as though he was afraid of what
he might see.
In the alcove, which was all in black, appeared a small shelf, that
stood but a little way out from the wall. Upon it, gleaming very white
against the black, stood the skull of a man, and on either side of the
skull were the bones of a man's hand. It looked to him, as he gazed on
it with a sort of curious disgust, as though a dead man had come up to
the surface of a black tide, and was preparing presently to leap out.
On either side stood two long silver candlesticks, very dark with
disuse; but instead of holding candles, they were fitted at the top
with flat metal dishes; and in these he poured some of his powders,
mixing them as before with his fingers. Between the candlesticks and
behind the skull was an old and dark picture, at which he gazed for a
time, holding his taper on high. The picture represented a man fleeing
in a kind of furious haste from a wood, his hands spread wide, and his
eyes staring out of the picture; behind him everywhere was the wood,
above which was a star in the sky--and out of the wood leaned a
strange pale horned thing, very dim. The horror in the man's face was
skilfully painted, and Anthony felt a shudder pass through his veins.
He knew not what the picture meant; it had been given to him by the
old Italian, who had smiled a wicked smile when he gave it, and told
him that it had a very great virtue. When Anthony had asked him of the
subject of the picture, the old Italian had said, "Oh, it is as
appears; he hath been where he ought not, and he hath seen somewhat he
doth not like." When Anthony would fain have known more, and
especially what the thing was that leaned out of the wood, the old
Italian had smiled cruelly and said, "Know you not? Well, you will
know some day when you have seen him;" and never a word more would he
say.
When Anthony had put all things in order, he opened the book at a
certain place, and laid it upon the altar; and then it seemed as
though his courage failed him, for he drew the curtain again over the
alcove, unlocked the door, set the tinder-box and the candle back in
their place, and softly left the room.
He was very restless all the evening. He took down books from the
shelves, turned them over, and put them back again. He addressed
himself to some unfinished work, but soon threw it aside; he paced up
and down, and spent a long time, with his hands clasped behind him,
looking out into the desolate garden, where a still, red sunset burnt
behind the leafless trees. He was like a man who has made up his mind
to a grave decision, and shrinks back upon the brink. When his food
was served he could hardly touch it, and he drank no wine as his
custom was to do, but only water, saying to himself that his head must
be clear. But in the evening he went to his bedroom, and searched for
something in a press there; he found at last what he was searching
for, and unfolded a long black robe, looking gloomily upon it, as
though it aroused unwelcome thoughts; while he was pondering, he heard
a hum of music behind the arras; he put the robe down, and stepped
through the hangings, and stood awhile in the little oriel that looked
down into the church. Vespers were proceeding; he saw the holy lights
dimly through the dusty panes, and heard the low preluding of the
organ; then, solemn and slow, rose the sound of a chanted psalm on the
air; he carefully unfastened the casement which opened inward and
unclosed it, standing for a while to listen, while the air, fragrant
with incense smoke, drew into the room along the vaulted roof. There
were but a few worshippers in the church, who stood below him; two
lights burnt stilly upon the altar, and he saw distinctly the thin
hands of a priest who held a book close to his face. He had not set
foot within a church for many years, and the sight and sound drew his
mind back to his childhood's days. At last with a sigh he put the
window to very softly, and went to his study, where he made pretence
to read, till the hour came when he was wont to retire to his bed. He
sent his servant away, but instead of lying down, he sate, looking
upon a parchment, which he held in his hand, while the bells of the
city slowly told out the creeping hours.
At last, a few minutes before midnight, he rose from his place; the
house was now all silent, and without the night was very still, as
though all things slept tranquilly. He opened the press and took from
it the black robe, and put it round him, so that it covered him from
head to foot, and then gathered up the parchment, and the key of the
locked room, and went softly out, and so came to the door. This he
undid with a kind of secret and awestruck haste, locking it behind
him. Once inside the room, he wrestled awhile with a strong aversion
to what was in his mind to do, and stood for a moment, listening
intently, as though he expected to hear some sound. But the room was
still, except for the faint biting of some small creature in the
wainscot.
Then with a swift motion he took up the tinder-box and made a light;
he drew aside the curtain that hid the alcove; he put fire to the
powder in the candlesticks, which at first spluttered, and then
swiftly kindling sent up a thick smoky flame, fragrant with drugs,
burning hotly and red. Then he came back to the altar; cast a swift
glance round him to see that all was ready; put fire to the powder on
the altar, and in a low and inward voice began to recite words from
the book, and from the parchment which he held in his hand; once or
twice he glanced fearfully at the skull, and the hands which gleamed
luridly through the smoke; the figures in the picture wavered in the
heat; and now the powders began to burn clear, and throw up a steady
light; and still he read, sometimes turning a page, until at last he
made an end; and drawing something from a silver box which lay beside
the book, he dropped it in the flame, and looked straight before him
to see what might befall. The thing that fell in the flame burned up
brightly, with a little leaping of sparks, but soon it died down; and
there was a long silence, in the room, a breathless silence, which, to
Anthony's disordered mind, was not like the silence of emptiness, but
such silence as may be heard when unseen things are crowding quietly
to a closed door, expecting it to be opened, and as it were holding
each other back.
Suddenly, between him and the picture, appeared for a moment a pale
light, as of moonlight, and then with a horror which words cannot
attain to describe, Anthony saw a face hang in the air a few feet from
him, that looked in his own eyes with a sort of intent fury, as though
to spring upon him if he turned either to the right hand or to the
left. His knees tottered beneath him, and a sweat of icy coldness
sprang on his brow; there followed a sound like no sound that Anthony
had ever dreamed of hearing; a sound that was near and yet remote, a
sound that was low and yet charged with power, like the groaning of a
voice in grievous pain and anger, that strives to be free and yet is
helpless. And then Anthony knew that he had indeed opened the door
that looks into the other world, and that a deadly thing that held him
in enmity had looked out. His reeling brain still told him that he was
safe where he was, but that he must not step or fall outside the
circle; but how he should resist the power of the wicked face he knew
not. He tried to frame a prayer in his heart; but there swept such a
fury of hatred across the face that he dared not. So he closed his
eyes and stood dizzily waiting to fall, and knowing that if he fell it
was the end.
Suddenly, as he stood with closed eyes, he felt the horror of the
spell relax; he opened his eyes again, and saw that the face died out
upon the air, becoming first white and then thin, like the husk that
stands on a rush when a fly draws itself from its skin, and floats
away into the sunshine.
Then there fell a low and sweet music upon the air, like a concert of
flutes and harps, very far away. And then suddenly, in a sweet clear
radiance, the face of his mother, as she lived in his mind, appeared
in the space, and looked at him with a kind of heavenly love; then
beside the face appeared two thin hands which seemed to wave a
blessing towards him, which flowed like healing into his soul.
The relief from the horror, and the flood of tenderness that came into
his heart, made him reckless. The tears came into his eyes, not in a
rising film, but a flood hot and large. He took a step forwards round
the altar; but as he did so, the vision disappeared, the lights shot
up into a flare and went out; the house seemed to be suddenly shaken;
in the darkness he heard the rattle of bones, and the clash of metal,
and Anthony fell all his length upon the ground and lay as one dead.
But while he thus lay, there came to him in some secret cell of the
mind a dreadful vision, which he could only dimly remember afterwards
with a fitful horror. He thought that he was walking in the cloister
of some great house or college, a cool place, with a pleasant garden
in the court. He paced up and down, and each time that he did so, he
paused a little before a great door at the end, a huge blind portal,
with much carving about it, which he somehow knew he was forbidden to
enter. Nevertheless, each time that he came to it, he felt a strong
wish, that constantly increased, to set foot therein. Now in the dream
there fell on him a certain heaviness, and the shadow of a cloud fell
over the court, and struck the sunshine out of it. And at last he made
up his mind that he would enter. He pushed the door open with much
difficulty, and found himself in a long blank passage, very damp and
chilly, but with a glimmering light; he walked a few paces down it.
The flags underfoot were slimy, and the walls streamed with damp. He
then thought that he would return; but the great door was closed
behind him, and he could not open it. This made him very fearful; and
while he considered what he should do, he saw a tall and angry-looking
man approaching very swiftly down the passage. As he turned to face
him, the other came straight to him, and asked him very sternly what
he did there; to which Anthony replied that he had found the door
open. To which the other replied that it was fast now, and that he
must go forward. He seized Anthony as he spoke by the arm, and urged
him down the passage. Anthony would fain have resisted, but he felt
like a child in the grip of a giant, and went forward in great terror
and perplexity. Presently they came to a door in the side of the wall,
and as they passed it, there stepped out an ugly shadowy thing, the
nature of which he could not clearly discern, and marched softly
behind them. Soon they came to a turn in the passage, and in a moment
the way stopped on the brink of a dark well, that seemed to go down a
long way into the earth, and out of which came a cold fetid air, with
a hollow sound like a complaining voice. Anthony drew back as far as
he could from the pit, and set his back to the wall, his companion
letting go of him. But he could not go backward, for the thing behind
him was in the passage, and barred the way, creeping slowly nearer.
Then Anthony was in a great agony of mind, and waited for the end.
But while he waited, there came some one very softly down the passage
and drew near; and the other, who had led him to the place, waited, as
though ill-pleased to be interrupted; it was too murky for Anthony to
see the new-comer, but he knew in some way that he was a friend. The
stranger came up to them, and spoke in a low voice to the man who had
drawn Anthony thither, as though pleading for something; and the man
answered angrily, but yet with a certain dark respect, and seemed to
argue that he was acting in his right, and might not be interfered
with. Anthony could not hear what they said, they spoke so low, but he
guessed the sense, and knew that it was himself of whom they
discoursed, and listened with a fearful wonder to see which would
prevail. The end soon came, for the tall man, who had brought him
there, broke out into a great storm of passion; and Anthony heard him
say, "He hath yielded himself to his own will; and he is mine here; so
let us make an end." Then the stranger seemed to consider; and then
with a quiet courage, and in a soft and silvery voice like that of a
child, said, "I would that you would have yielded to my prayer; but as
you will not, I have no choice." And he took his hand from under the
cloak that wrapped him, and held something out; then there came a
great roaring out of the pit, and a zigzag flame flickered in the
dark. Then in a moment the tall man and the shadow were gone; Anthony
could not see whither they went, and he would have thanked the
stranger; but the other put his finger to his lip as though to order
silence, and pointed to the way he had come, saying, "Make haste and
go back; for they will return anon with others; you know not how dear
it hath cost me." Anthony could see the stranger's face in the gloom,
and he was surprised to see it so youthful; but he saw also that tears
stood in the eyes of the stranger, and that something dark like blood
trickled down his brow; yet he looked very lovingly at him. So Anthony
made haste to go back, and found the door ajar; but as he reached it,
he heard a horrible din behind him, of cries and screams; and it was
with a sense of gratitude, that he could not put into words, but which
filled all his heart, that he found himself back in the cloister
again. And then the vision all fled away, and with a shock coming to
himself, he found that he was lying in his own room; and then he knew
that a battle had been fought out over his soul, and that the evil had
not prevailed.
He was cold and aching in every limb; the room was silent and dark,
with the heavy smell of the burnt drugs all about it. Anthony crept to
the door, and opened it; locked it again, and made his way in the dark
very feebly to his bed-chamber; he had just the strength to get into
his bed, and then all his life seemed to ebb from him, and he lay, and
thought that he was dying. Presently from without there came the
crying of cocks, and a bell beat the hour of four; and after that, in
his vigil of weakness, it was strange to see the light glimmer in the
crevices, and to hear the awakening birds that in the garden bushes
took up, one after another, their slender piping song, till all the
choir cried together.
But Anthony felt a strange peace in his heart; and he had a sense,
though he could not say why, that it was as once in his childhood,
when he was ill, and his mother had sate softly by him while he slept.
So he waited, and in spite of his mortal weakness that was a blessed
hour.
When his man came to rouse him in the morning, Anthony said that he
believed that he was very ill, that he had had a fall, and that the
old doctor must be fetched to him. The man looked so strangely upon
him, that Anthony knew that he had some fear upon his mind. Presently
the doctor was brought, and Anthony answered such questions as were
put to him, in a faint voice, saying, "I was late at my work, and I
slipped and fell." The doctor, who looked troubled, gave directions;
and when he went away he heard his man behind the door asking the
doctor about the strange storm in the night, that had seemed like an
earthquake, or as if a thunderbolt had struck the house. But the
doctor said very gruffly, "It is no time to talk thus, when your
master is sick to death." But Anthony knew in himself that he would
not die yet.
It was long ere he was restored to a measure of health; and indeed he
never rightly recovered the use of his limbs; the doctor held that he
had suffered some stroke of palsy; at which Anthony smiled a little,
and made no answer.
When he was well enough to creep to and fro, he went sadly to the
dark room, and with much pain and weakness carried the furniture out
of it. The picture he cut in pieces and burnt; and the candles and
dishes, with the book, he cast into a deep pool in the stream; the
bones he buried in the earth; the hangings he stored away for his own
funeral.
Anthony never entered his workroom again; but day after day he sate
in his chair, and read a little, but mostly in the Bible; he made a
friend of a very wise old priest, to whom he opened all his heart, and
to whom he conveyed much money to be bestowed on the poor; there was a
great calm in his spirit, which was soon written in his face, in spite
of his pain, for he often suffered sorely; but he told the priest that
something, he knew not certainly what, seemed to dwell by him, waiting
patiently for his coming; and so Anthony awaited his end.