"I must look to you," said the doctor. "Go and lie down, and I will come to you."
Charley bowed, but did not move. Just then two things drew the attention of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise of many voices outside the house and the tramping of feet below-stairs.
"Go and tell them no one must come up," said the doctor to the Notary, and the Cure made ready to say the last offices for the dying.
Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the priest's voice rose in the office, vibrating and touching. The two women sank to their knees, the doctor followed, his eyes still fixed on the dying man. Presently, however, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and reasonable in the devotion touched him.
All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute excitement, his eyes fell on the Cure, then upon Charley.
"Stop—stop, M'sieu' le Cure!" he cried. "There's other work to do."
He gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with
fire from the distempered eyes. He snatched from his breast the paper
Charley had neglected to burn. He thrust it into the Curb's hand.
"See—see!" he croaked. "He is an infidel—black infidel—from hell!" His voice rose in a kind of shriek, piercing to every corner of the house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger.
"He wrote it there—on that paper. He doesn't—believe in God."
His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblingly at the air. He laughed, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice to speak, but gasping breaths only came forth. With a last effort, however- -as the priest, shocked, stretched out his hand and said: "Have done, have done, Trudel!"—he cried, in a voice that quavered shrilly:
"He asked—tailor-man—sign—from—Heaven. Look-look!" He pointed wildly at Charley. "I—gave him—sign of—"