Even as Colin looked, half-envying him, half-horrified at the tension of the man’s face, Vincenzo suddenly rose to his feet, with hands stretched out in front of him. He swayed as he stood, as if blown by a great wind, and then crashed forward and fell full length on the altar-step.
The priest, with the wafer still unconsecrated in his hand, turned at the thud of his fall. He placed the wafer back on the paten, and beckoning to Colin stooped down by the man’s side. Vincenzo had rolled on to his face and lay there trembling and twitching. They turned him over; his eyes wide open seemed to be focussed in blank terror at something close in front of them, and at the corners of his mouth foam had gathered.
The priest felt for his pulse.
“What happened?” he said to Colin.
“He fell forward.... Well? Is he alive? Is he dead?”
“I can’t find any flicker of pulse,” said Douglas. “Can you get some brandy? I’ve got none.”
“Yes, there’s sure to be a tray in the gallery. I’ll go and get it.”
Colin nodded towards the altar.
“Take the vessels back to your room,” he said, “and disrobe. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Father Douglas knew something of first aid, but it was in vain that they tried to restore the stricken man. The brandy, unswallowed, trickled out of his mouth again, the raising and lowering of his arms started no flicker of vitality.