"But he was so weak, the poor man!"
"Weakness does not prevent suffering except in the eyes of others," said the doctor.
. . . . .
The next morning the drab light of the early day fell upon the faces and the melancholy funeral lights. The coming of the day, keen and cold, had a depressing effect upon the atmosphere of the room, making it heavier, thicker.
A voice in a low apologetic tone for a moment interrupted the silence that had lasted for hours.
"You mustn't open the window. It isn't good for the dead body."
"It is cold," some one muttered.
Two hands went up and drew a fur piece close. Some one rose, and then sat down again. Some one else turned his head. There was a sigh.
It was as if they had taken advantage of these few words to come out of the calm in which they had been concealed. Then they glanced once more at the man on the bier—motionless, inexorably motionless.
I must have fallen asleep when all at once I heard the church bells ringing in the grey sky.