Kral and Kubitzky were appointed to take care of me, and both were exceedingly attentive. Whenever I showed the least return of reason, Kral was accustomed to say, “There! have faith in God; God alone is good.”
“Pray for me,” I stammered out, when a lucid interval first appeared; “pray for me not to live, but that he will accept my misfortunes and my death as an expiation.” He suggested that I should take the sacrament.
“If I asked it not, attribute it to my poor head; it would be a great consolation to me.”
Kral reported my words to the superintendent, and the chaplain of the prisons came to me. I made my confession, received the communion, and took the holy oil. The priest’s name was Sturm, and I was satisfied with him. The reflections he made upon the justice of God, upon the injustice of man, upon the duty of forgiveness, and upon the vanity of all earthly things, were not out of place. They bore moreover the stamp of a dignified and well-cultivated mind as well as an ardent feeling of true love towards God and our neighbour.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
The exertion I made to receive the sacrament exhausted my remaining strength; but it was of use, as I fell into a deep sleep, which continued several I hours.
On awaking I felt somewhat refreshed, and observing Schiller and Kral near me, I took them by the hand, and thanked them for their care. Schiller fixed his eyes on me.
“I am accustomed,” he said, “to see persons at the last, and I would lay a wager that you will not die.”
“Are you not giving me a bad prognostic?” said I.
“No;” he replied, “the miseries of life are great it is true; but he who supports them with dignity and with humility must always gain something by living.” He then added, “If you live, I hope you will some day meet with consolation you had not expected. You were petitioning to see your friend Signor Maroncelli.”