“He is young, he sleeps.”
He sighed, for his mouth was very parched and dry. After a while he said again:
“My son, sleepest thou? Wake, I pray thee.”
But no one answered, and he said:
“My voice is weak, and the sleep of youth is heavy. O Lord, Thy chosen slept in the hour of Thy agony; how didst Thou thirst, O Master, and there was none to succour Thee, save with the bitter vinegar and gall!”
After a while the old monk’s thirst grew grievous, and he strove, slowly and tremulously, to raise his aged limbs.
“It is but a little way to yonder jug,” he murmured, “I am a selfish old man; the lad is tired with toil. I will seek the water for myself.”
He rose slowly, groped a pace or two, stumbled, and fell to the floor of his cell. He lay there, moaning a little now and then, and shivering. Thus did he lie during two hours of the night; and thus Brother Gorlois found him when he slunk back, just as day broke. In great terror he called the brethren, praying God that the old man had not known his absence, or at least would be speechless till the end. But Brother Pacificus, though all might see his death was near, recovered speech and clearness of mind, and received the last rites of the Church. Then said he:
“My brethren, ye are weary. Leave me to await the coming of my Lord and Master. I shall die this night when midnight strikes. Wherefore at that hour go ye to the chapel, and speed my soul with songs of holy joy; and leave with me, I pray you, Brother Gorlois.”
Then they obeyed, weeping; but the Head said: