If ever words changed the countenance of a man, mine did. His eyes fairly blazed with anger, and he hissed out, "No, signore--this is a priest's work--pray if you like, but no priest comes here."
I had, as all other men have, frequently called upon God, sometimes in idle blasphemy; but never on an occasion so serious as this. Pray if I liked! I had forgotten what real prayer was. Impelled by a power I could not resist, I knelt down and tried to form some words to reach the Most High. But they would not come, I could only feel them, and I rose again and took my stand by the dying girl.
She began to talk now in a rambling manner, and with that strength which comes at the point of death from somewhere; her voice was clear, but with a metallic ring. It is not for me to repeat the last words of one who is now with her God; but I gathered from them a story of trusting love, of infamous wrong and dastardly crime. And Corte shook like a branch in the wind, as the words came thick and fast from the lips of his dying child. After a while she became still once again. So still that we thought she had passed away; but she revived on a sudden, and called out:
"Father--I cannot see--I am blind--stoop down and let me whisper."
"I am here, little one--close--quite close to you."
"Tell him--I--forgive. You must forgive too--promise."
Corte pressed his lips to her damp forehead, but spoke no word.
"It is bright again--they are calling me--mother! Hold me up--I cannot breathe."
Corte sank on his knees with his head between his hands, and passing my arm round the poor creature I lifted her up, and the spirit passed. In the room there was now a silence which was broken by a heart-rending sob from Corte. He staggered to his feet with despair on his face.
"She said forgive!" he exclaimed. "Man, you have seen an angel die. This is the work of a priest, of a pontiff, of him who calls himself Vicar of Christ! Go now, and leave me with my dead."