“All that was sent to me quite ready by persons quite unknown to me,” said the sick girl. “I had secret friends who pitied me. They tried to restore to me my lost rights.”
“But what is this?” thought the bewildered priest, listening to her. “Is all this fiction or truth? If this is deceit, my God, at what a moment!”
“You are on the borders of the grave,” said he, in a trembling voice; “on the verge of eternity.… Repent.… Between us there is only one witness—God.”
The penitent struggled within herself. Her bosom rose and fell, and her hand convulsively clutched her handkerchief and held it to her lips.
“In expectation of God’s judgment and my near death,” said she, turning her eyes to the image of the Saviour, “I confess and swear that all that I have told you and others is the truth. I know nothing more.…”
“But all this is impossible,” said Father Peter, in an agitated voice. “All that you have told me is so very improbable.”
The poor girl closed her eyes, as if from unendurable acute suffering. Large tears rolled down her thin and faded cheeks.
“Who were your accomplices?” asked the priest, after a short pause.
“Oh, no one! Have pity, have mercy; … and if I, weak, persecuted, without means.…”
The Princess did not finish. A hollow cough shook her frame. She suddenly raised herself, clutched at her breast, at the bed, and fell back, apparently lifeless.