“Compassionate stranger! may God preserve you from ever being obliged to live alone! My sister and my companion is no more. But heaven will grant me the strength to endure life courageously; it will grant it, I trust, for I pray for it with all the earnestness of my heart.”
“How old was your sister when she died?”
“She was barely twenty-five, but her sufferings made her look much older. In spite of her fatal disease, which changed her features, she would have been handsome, had it not been for her frightful pallor, the result of a living death which made me groan whenever I looked at her.”
“She died quite young?”
“Her delicate and feeble constitution could not resist so many sufferings combined: for some time I had perceived her loss inevitable. Her lot was so sad that I could not desire her to live. Seeing her daily languishing and wasting away, I felt, with a fearful kind of joy, that the end of her sufferings was approaching. For a month she had been growing weaker; frequent swoons were constantly threatening her life. One evening (it was about the first of August) I saw her so weak that I was unwilling to leave her. She was in her arm-chair, not having been able to lie down for several days. I seated myself near her, and in the profound darkness we held our last conversation. I could not restrain my tears. A sad presentiment agitated
me. ‘Why do you weep?’ she said. ‘Why distress yourself? I shall not forsake you when I die. I shall always be with you in your sufferings.’
“A few moments after, she expressed a desire to be carried out of the tower, that she might offer her prayers in the grove of nut-trees where she passed the greater part of the pleasant season. ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘to die looking at the heavens.’ But I did not imagine her end so near. I was about to take her in my arms, when she said, ‘Only support me. I am, perhaps, strong enough to walk.’ I led her slowly to the nut-trees. I made a cushion of the dry leaves she herself had gathered together, and, covering her head with a veil to screen her from the dampness of the night, I seated myself near her. But she desired to be left alone during her last meditation, and I went to a distance, but without losing sight of her. From time to time, I could see the flutter of her veil and her white hands raised to heaven. When I drew near the grove, she asked for some water. I carried her some in a cup. She wet her lips, but could not swallow. ‘I feel the end has come,’ said she, turning her head. ‘My thirst will soon be assuaged for ever. Support me, brother: aid me in crossing this gulf—so long desired, but so terrible. Support me, and say the prayers for the dying.’ These were her last words. I drew her head against my breast, and said the prayer for the departing soul: ‘Go forth from this world, my beloved sister, and leave thy mortal remains in my arms!’ I held her in this way for three hours, during the last throes of nature. At length, she quietly passed away, and her soul left the earth without a struggle.”
At the end of this account, the
Leper covered his face with his hands. Sympathy deprived the traveller of the power of speaking. After a moment’s silence, the Leper rose. “Stranger,” said he, “when grief or dejection comes over you, think of the Leper of the city of Aosta, and your visit will not have been a useless one.”
They walked towards the garden-gate. As the officer was about to go out, he put his glove on his right hand. “You have never pressed any one’s hand,” said he. “Do me the favor to press mine. It is the hand of a friend who is deeply interested in your lot.”