“He’s like ice,” whispered the Churchwarden, putting forth his great strength, and lifting the old man bodily out, to lay him by the stove, the Rector placing a cushion beneath his head.
The motion seemed to revive the old man for a moment, and he opened his eyes, staring strangely at the Rector, who held one hand.
Then his lips moved, and in a voice hardly above a whisper they heard him say—
“Bless—thou!—Bless—thou!—those words would—have killed me.”
There was a pause, and the Churchwarden was hastening forth to fetch help, when there arose in the now empty church a shrill “Amen.”
It was the old clerk’s last.