Father Elzear, seated on the edge of the coffin, sustained the head of his brother on his knees. The commander, as pale as a ghost, lay unconscious, his brow wet with a cold sweat At last he regained his consciousness, and looked around him with a sad and astonished air; then, throwing a glance upon his arms and naked shoulders, scarcely covered by the haircloth, he asked the priest, abruptly:
“How came you here, Elzear?”
“Although there was crape on your door, Pierre, I thought I could enter. The matter which brought me to you is a very important one.”
An expression of keen dissatisfaction was depicted on the commander’s countenance, as he cried:
“And I have been talking, no doubt?”
“The Lord has been moved to pity by your words, but I have not understood them, my brother. Besides, your mind was distracted; you were under the domination of some fatal illusion.”
Pierre smiled bitterly. “Yes, it was an illusion,—a dream,” said he. “You know, I am sometimes overcome by dreadful imaginations, and become delirious,—that is why I wish to be alone in these periods of madness. Believe me, Elzear, then the presence of any human being is intolerable to me, for I fear even you.”
As he said these words, the commander entered a closet adjoining his chamber, and soon came out dressed in a long robe of black woollen cloth, on which was quartered the white cross of his order.
The figure of Pierre des Anbiez was tall, erect, and robust. His thin, nervous limbs showed, in spite of age, an uncommon vigour. His features were severe and warlike; thick, black eyebrows shaded his deep-set, hollow, burning eyes, which seemed always to glow with the sombre fire of a fever; a deep scar divided his brow, and furrowed his cheek until it was lost in his gray, short, and bushy beard.
Returning to his chamber, he walked back and forth, his hands crossed behind his back, without saying a word to his brother.