The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away—perhaps it was hushed because old Gaston was like this—Marie-Louise had been gone a long time—presently she and Father Anton would be back, and—
He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly, the lips struggling to say something.
"What is it, Gaston?" he asked.
"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is—for—the last time. Go and—light—the—great lamp."
"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room—but at the door he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him, then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room.
Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly.
"It burns?" he cried out.
"It burns," said Jean steadily.
And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again.
And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the opening of the front door—and then it seemed to Jean that a benediction had fallen upon the room.