I started round to see the hermit lying on
his back, his face rigid, his mouth open and idiotic, his eyes more leaden
than they had been a moment since.
"What is it?" I cried, despite myself.
"He has gone, my son," answered the old priest sorrowfully. "But he was
contrite, and he had lived a saint." And drawing from his breast a little
silver box, he proceeded to perform the last rites upon the body from which
the soul was already fled.
I came slowly back and knelt beside him, and long we remained there in
silent prayer for the repose of that blessed spirit. And whilst we prayed
the wind rose outside, and a storm grew in the bosom of the night that had
been so fair and tranquil. The lightning flashed and illumined the
interior of that hut with a vividness as of broad daylight, throwing into
livid relief the arrow-pierced St. Sebastian in the niche and the ghastly,
grinning skull upon the hermit's pulpit.
The thunder crashed and crackled, and the echoes of its artillery went
booming and rolling round the hills, whilst the rain fell in a terrific
lashing downpour. Some of it finding a weakness in the roof, trickled and
dripped and formed a puddle in the middle of the hut.
For upwards of an hour the storm raged, and all the while we remained upon
our knees beside the dead anchorite.
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