The priest took her place and waited with crossed hands through convulsion after convulsion, each of which was more terrible than the former one until nothing worse could be imagined. The muscles were strained to their utmost tensity. The body was bent like a bow but the most unbearable of all was the drawn face and the awful semblance of laughter that has been fitly called risus sardonicus. Dr. Normander closed his eyes and the mother cried out again in direst agony:
“Father! Father! what have I done that the evil spirits should take possession of my child?”
“Poor mother, thou hast been more sinned against than sinning I perceive; but hasten now and get hot cloths ready for the next attack; for there will doubtless be another and another, although his face shows signs of relaxing and he may be able to speak to thee and answer thy questionings.”
The mother went out and the boy lay as still as a stone under the Priest’s treatment for a few moments. Then he gave a great gasp and cried:
“Mother! Mother! Forgive me before I go. I minded the rich man. I should have minded thee. The rich man said the little play-pistol would not hurt me. It did hurt me, mother. It was a foul fiend.” He took the cross in his little wounded hand and clasped it like a vise against his heart and even into the tender flesh until it left its mark there. His lips twitched and quivered as though they were being drawn again into the awful laugh.
“Risus sardonicus,” cried the priest, “Jesus have mercy!”
“Jesus have mercy!” cried the mother.
“Jesus have mercy!” whispered Dr. Normander.
“Jesus have mercy!” cried the boy in a note of triumph. The strained lips relaxed and parted with a heavenly smile and the widow’s child had gone to meet the widow’s God.