The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room.
The Prioress moved to the window.
The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest.
Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where to go.
Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing Miserere.
But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine: "I want life—not death!"
Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of
Mary Seraphine.
First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper.
Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.
Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually possessed.