“Get the blessed candle; we must pray, good people,” said Virginie; and she put on her spectacles and went and stood with her book under the light.
The women knelt on low chairs or on the floor. Warten stood with his elbows leaning on the rail of the bed, at Zeen’s head. Treze took the blessed candle out of its paper covering and lit it at the lamp.
Zeen’s chest rose and fell and his throat rattled painfully; his eyes stood gazing dimly at the rafters of the ceiling; his thin lips were pale and his face turned blue with the pain; he no longer looked like a living thing.
Virginie read very slowly, with a dismal, drawling voice, through her nose, while Treze held Zeen’s weak fingers closed round the candle. It was still as death.
“May the Light of the World, Christ Jesus, Who is symbolized by this candle, brightly light thy eyes that thou mayest not depart this life in death everlasting. Our Father....”
They softly muttered this Our Father and it remained solemnly still, with only Warten’s rough grunting and Zeen’s painful breathing and the goat which kept ramming its head against the wall. And then, slower by degrees:
“Depart, O Christian soul, from this sorrowful world; go to meet thy dear Bridegroom, Christ Jesus, and carry a lighted candle in thy hands: He Who....”
Then Barbara, interrupting her, whispered:
“Look, Virginie, he’s getting worse; the rattle’s getting fainter: turn over, you’ll be too late.”
Treze was tired of holding Zeen’s hand round the candle: she spilt a few drops of wax on the rail of the bed and stuck the candle on it.