To find the priest in his little cottage by the church was an easy
matter; to tell him my errand and to induce him to come with me, to tend
the holy man who lay dying alone in the mountain, was as easy. To return,
however, was the most difficult part of the undertaking; for the upward
path was steep, and the priest was old and needed such assistance as my own
very weary limbs could scarcely render him. We had the advantage of a
lanthorn which he insisted upon bringing, and we made as good progress as
could be expected. But it was best part of two hours after my setting out
before we stood once more upon the little platform where the hermit had his
hut.
We found the place in utter darkness. Through lack of oil his little lamp
had burned itself out; and when we entered, the man on the bed of wattles
lay singing a lewd tavern-song, which, coming from such holy lips, filled
me with horror and amazement.
But the old priest, with that vast and doleful experience of death-beds
which belongs to men of his class, was quick to perceive the cause of this.
The fever was flickering up before life's final extinction, and the poor
moribund was delirious and knew not what he said.
For an hour we watched beside him, waiting. The priest was confident that
there would be a return of consciousness and a spell of lucidity before the
end.
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