They carried him up-stairs, tenderly undressed him as if he were a child, and put him to bed. He shrieked for a priest, so they fetched him one. He made his confession, and received the sacrament.
His lawyer then appeared on the scene, and his last will was written out and duly signed. He had still something to leave. There were his houses, the whole street front; the church into which no one came, on whose threshold between the stones the grass grew thick, in whose court-yard the school-boys played ball on Thursday half-holidays.
The church, notwithstanding, was endowed with a priest, a verger, and a bell-ringer. The priest should say mass, the bell-ringer should ring the bell, the verger should open the door every day; just as a hundred years ago, when through the open church doors a stream of men passed, with silver buttons on their jackets, and women with long silk veils. The old man now dying is the last descendant left on this earth of the old Greek traders. The church shall remain standing in memory of them.
The house next door to his own he bequeathed to the widow, who was the daughter of the last Greek. This woman and he had quarrelled long ago. God alone can decide the justice of a quarrel that has to do with paper money, which to-day is worth a great deal and to-morrow not a penny. Therefore, he bequeathed to her and her son the heap of cursed, worthless papers called shares in the Bondavara Company, which have caused his unexpected death. They shall have these papers, whether for good or ill.
After he had made these depositions and arranged his affairs his will was sealed and inscribed by himself. He divided among his neighbors and servants his few remaining possessions. He called the bell-ringer, and enjoined him to toll the bell three times every two hours, and if any one asked the reason why, he should answer, "The Greek, Csanta, is dead." Then he sent every one out of the room.
When next morning they returned he was dead. He had died of grief, just as an aged husband will not survive the loss of his wife with whom he had grown old. So a man with a strong will dies when he has said that he can no longer support life.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE GROUND BURNS UNDER HIS FEET
Peter Saffran's curse seemed likely to be fulfilled: "Upon this field no grass shall grow for evermore."
It was true the green grass grew still upon the field, but who could tell what was seething underneath, in the bosom of the earth?