Next day, when Brother Andrew came to John's cell with the food, he began to sing as if to himself while he bustled about the room.
“Brother Paul is sinking—he is sinking rapidly—Father Jerrold has confessed him—he has taken the sacrament—and is very patient.”
This, as if it had been a Gregorian chant, the great fellow had hit upon as a means of communicating with John without breaking the rule and committing sin.
John did not lock his door on the following night. On going to bed he listened for the noises he had heard before, half fearing and yet half wishing that he might hear them again. But he heard nothing, and toward midnight he fell asleep. Something made him shudder, and he awoke with the sensation of moonlight on his face. The moon was indeed shining, and its sepulchral light was on a figure that stood by the foot of the bed. It was Paul, with a livid face, murmuring his name in a voice almost as faint as a breath.
John leaped up and put his arms about him.
“You are ill, brother—very ill.”
“I am dying.”
“Help! help!” cried John, and he made for the door.
“Hush, brother, hush!”
“Oh, I don't care for rule. Rule is nothing in a case like this. And, besides, it is an understood thing—— Help!”