Father Seysen looked at the body and perceived that his offices were needless, and then turned to Amine, who had not yet checked her tears.
“Weep, my child, weep! for you have cause,” said the priest. “The loss of a father’s love must be a severe trial to a dutiful and affectionate child. But yield not too much to your grief, Amine; you have other duties, other ties, my child—you have your husband.”
“I know it, father,” replied Amine; “still must I weep, for I was his daughter.”
“Did he not go to bed last night then that his clothes are still upon him? When did he first complain?”
“The last time that I saw him, father,” replied Philip; “he came into my room and gave me some medicine, and then he wished me good night. Upon on a summons to attend a sick bed, my wife went to call him, and found him speechless.”
“It has been sudden,” replied the priest; “but he was an old man, and old men sink at once. Were you with him when he died?”
“I was not, sir,” replied Philip; “before my wife had summoned me and I had dressed myself, he had left this world.”
“I trust, my children, for a better.” Amine shuddered. “Tell me Amine,” continued the priest, “did he show signs of grace before he died? for you know full well that he has long been looked on as doubtful in his creed and little attentive to the rites of our holy church.”
“There are times, holy father,” replied Amine, “when even a sincere Christian can be excused, even if he give no sign. Look at his clenched hands, witness the agony of death on his face, and could you, in that state expect a sign?”
“Alas! ’tis but too true, my child: we must then hope for the best. Kneel with me, my children, and let us offer up a prayer for the soul of the departed.”