The darkness and the mildewed wall—everything around us moved, reechoing the low groans of the ascetic—"Oh."
Four times a week they brought him food. Of course, he was starved.
This last time he said nothing to me, only sucked the bread. He evidently had not a tooth left in his head.
I stood there for some time. Then I said:
"Well, pardon me, in Christ's name, Father Mardarie. I am going now, and I won't return again. Let me thank you."
"Yes, yes," he answered eagerly. "It is I who thank you; it is I who thank you. But don't tell the monks about the bread. They will take it away. They are jealous, the monks are. No doubt the devils know them, too. The devils know everything and everybody—say nothing about it."
Soon after this he became ill and died. They buried him with solemnity. The Bishop came from the city with all his clergy, and they held a Cathedral Mass. Afterward I heard that under the tombstone of the old man a little blue fire burns of itself at night.
How pitiful it all was and how disgraceful to man!