She felt it; her work was done. She had exhausted, as Augustin says, all the hope of the century—consumpta spe sæculi. For her the parting was near. This ecstasy was that of one dying, who has raised a corner of the veil, and who no longer belongs to this world.
* * * * *
And, in fact, five or six days later she fell ill. She had fever. The climate of Ostia bred fevers, as it does to-day, and it was always unsanitary on account of all the foreigners who brought in every infection of the Orient. Furthermore, the weariness of a long journey in summer had worn out this woman, old before her time. She had to go to bed. Soon she got worse, and then lost consciousness. They believed she was in the agony. They all came round her bed—Augustin, his brother Navigius, Evodius, the two cousins from Thagaste, Rusticus, and Lastidianus. But suddenly she shuddered, raised herself, and asked in a bewildered way:
"Where was I?"
Then, seeing the grief on their faces, she knew that she was lost, and she said in a steady voice:
"You will bury your mother here."
Navigius, frightened by this sight of death, protested with all his affection for her:
"No. You will get well, mother. You will come home again. You won't die in a foreign land."
She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, as if hurt that he spoke so little like a Christian, and turning to Augustin:
"See how he talks," she said.