And now she, the giver of a gift, knelt—knelt to her adorer who was prostrated before her like a victim. Her shining knees touched the cheap common carpet. Her chastity clothed her like a beautiful garment. She murmured broken words of gratitude, as though she felt that what she was doing was higher than her duty and more beautiful, and that it glorified her.
. . . . .
After she dressed and left the room without their having dared to say anything to each other, I wavered between two doubts. Was she right, or was she wrong? I saw the man cry and I heard him mutter:
"Now I shall not be able to die."
CHAPTER XII
The man was lying in bed. They moved about him carefully. He stirred faintly, said a few words, asked for a drink, smiled and then became silent under the rush of thoughts.
That morning they had seen him fold his hands, and they had asked him whether he wanted them to send for a priest.
"Yes—no," he said.
They went out, and a few minutes later, as if he had been waiting outside the door, a dark-robed priest entered. The two were left alone together.
The dying man turned his face toward the newcomer.