Presently he withdrew his hands and looked at me.
“Yes, yes,” he said; “but you do not understand. I am a priest.”
I sat down again. I tried hard to control a great trembling that had seized me. Still he watched me. Then he said more quietly:
“Is it nearly morning?”
“It is not yet twelve o’clock, sir,” said Parker’s voice steadily behind me.
“Then I must watch and pray a little longer,” said the old man. “Joy cometh in the morning.”
Then quite quietly he turned and lifted the crucifix from its nail, kissed it and replaced it. Then he put his hands over his face again and remained still.
The wind outside seemed quieter. But whenever it sighed in the chimney or at the window the priest winced a little, as if a sudden pain had touched him.
He was supported by pillows behind his back and head, against which he leaned easily. After a few minutes of silence his hands dropped and clasped themselves on his lap. His eyes were closed, and he seemed breathing steadily. I hoped that he would fall asleep so. But as I turned to whisper to Parker, I suppose I must have made a slight noise, for when I looked at the servant he paid no attention to me, but was looking at his master. I turned back again, and saw the old man’s eyes gazing straight at me.
“Yes,” he said; “go and sleep; why are you here? Parker, why did you allow him to come?”