And the good priest knelt upon the cold flag stones and prayed with fervour for the soul of the deceased mendicant.
Next day the wealthy owner of the mansion was reclining in an easy chair, his tortured limbs writhing with agony on the cushions of down by which they were supported. His physician in attendance was seated near him.
“I find myself worse to-day, doctor: I am weaker than I have yet been, and I feel something which I cannot well define.”
“At your age, my dear sir, and in your state of health,” the physician replied, “you must seek amusement for your mind. I have always told you that solitude is baneful to you. You should send for some members of your own family, or get some devoted friend to come and live with you.”
“Family! devoted friend! Why, you well know, doctor, that collaterals are mere heirs; you are in their way whilst you live: they only wait to prey upon your soil after your death.”
“But had you never any children?” the doctor asked.
“Never,” replied his patient, after some hesitation. “And I have no relations.”
Here the unhappy old man sighed, his brow became clouded, and he seemed to writhe in mental agony. Suddenly, by an apparent effort, changing the conversation, and assuming a tone of unconcern—
“Well, doctor,” he said, “and so this scoundrel of a mendicant, who, you may be assured, wanted to murder, and afterwards rob me, died yesterday in the prison hospital.”
“No, not in the hospital,” replied the physician. “I did all I could to induce him to remain in the infirmary; but he refused, and even solicited, as a favour, to be taken back to the cell he occupied before his trial.”