“Mother, I’m frightened,” whined Fietje.
“You mustn’t be frightened of dead people, child; you must get used to it.”
“Have you any holy water, Zalia?”
“Oh, yes, Barbara: it’s in the little pot over the bed!”
“And blessed palm?”
“Behind the crucifix.”
There was a creaking in the kitchen and Virginie appeared past the loom: a little old woman huddled in her hooded cloak; in one hand she carried a little lantern and in the other a big prayer-book. She came quietly up to the bed, looked at Zeen for some time, felt his pulse and then, looking up, said, very quietly:
“Zeen’s going.... Has the priest been?”
“The priest?... It’s so far and so late and the poor soul’s so old....”
“What have you given him?”