The Tsarevitch had been removed from the torture chamber to his cell. He did not regain consciousness.
The Tsar, accompanied by his ministers, entered the room of the dying man. When it was known that Alexis had not yet had the last rites of the Church administered to him, all became agitated and flurried. The priest of the Cathedral, Father George, was sent for. He came running along with the same frightened expression as the rest. He prepared for the sacrament, went through a dumb confession, mumbled the absolution, ordered the head of the dying man to be raised, and brought to his lips the spoon with the Host. But the lips remained closed, the teeth fast set; the golden spoon knocked against them, for the hand of Father George was trembling. Drops of the sacred wine fell on the cloth. Consternation was on the face of every one.
Suddenly Peter’s immovable face flushed with anger. He went up to the priest and said:—
“Leave it alone. It is unnecessary.”
And it seemed to him (or was it our fancy?) that his son smiled to him his last smile.
At the same hour as on the eve, on the same spot, at the head of the bed, the sun caught the white prison wall: A white old man was holding a chalice radiant as the sun.
The sunlight faded. The Tsarevitch sighed like a child who is falling asleep.
Blumentrost felt his pulse, then whispered something to Ménshikoff. The latter blessed himself with the sign of the cross and pronounced in a solemn voice:—
“His Highness, the Tsarevitch Alexis Petrovitch, has passed away.”
All knelt except the Tsar. He remained motionless. His face was more white and lifeless than his son’s face.