"So you also believe that it's the devil?" Rosa's voice expressed a certain satisfaction, a kind of childish pride; oh, yes, she knew all about such things. "I know him." she said triumphantly.
"What does he look like?" whispered her mother, with a shudder, as she hid her face in her hands. Oh, if that should have been he, that handsome young man who had suddenly appeared before her a short time before, as she stood half-dressed in the room downstairs and Mr. Tiralla was making excuses for the amorous maid?
"I saw him on the altar in the chapel," whispered Rosa. "Holy Michael was treading him underfoot. He's like a worm, but he has a face and horns on his head. Father Szypulski says he comes to tempt us. Pray, pray! He pokes the fire in Purgatory, in which the souls are burning. 'Pray for the peace of the poor souls in Purgatory,' says the priest, 'and for your own as well.' I commend all the souls in Purgatory to thee, oh, most holy Mother Mary." Rosa's whispers became more and more agitated and her wild, restless eyes began to wander about the room. "He's red, mother, red with black horns. He dances in the flames wherever there's a fire; he sends out sparks, mother--he's fetching us all! Mother! Oh, he's burning us all!"
The child uttered a heartrending sigh, and pressing both hands to her breast reared herself up in bed. Throwing back her disordered hair, she shrieked in a loud voice, "Oh, it hurts me, it hurts me so here--it hurts, hurts, hurts!"
"It hurts, hurts, hurts!" shrieked her mother. She did not know that she was repeating the same words.
Rosa tore her dress open, her breast heaved and sank as she gasped for breath in her terror. Then she clung to her mother, and hiding her face in her neck she whimpered, "Carry me out of the kitchen again, carry me up the dark stairs, oh, Holy Mother, that I needn't fear. Put me down, keep me warm--hail, Mary, thou that art highly favoured"--(the child's voice had grown soft and low)--"how beautiful thou art--I love thee--hail, Mary, blessed art thou among women--blessed--the fruit--of thy womb----"
Her words grew more and more indistinct, until they at last became nothing but an incoherent murmur.
Ah, now Rosa saw the Holy Virgin. Seized with a superstitious terror, Mrs. Tiralla loosened the child's arms from about her neck. What did Rosa see? What did she hear? Did she really see something? If only Rosa could find out something which could be of use to her--her!
The child had fallen back on her bed heavy and stiff. Spurred on by an intense eagerness her mother leant over her and whispered:
"Ask the Holy Virgin--tell the Holy Virgin that I'll let ten candles burn before her on the altar--ten wax candles--she's to release me--Glisten, all she's to do is to release me."