At that moment the infirmarian returned and abruptly took the lantern from Clement's hand. “Excuse me, I need it for some one who has come to visit a patient.”
In the narrow space that separated the two rows of beds, there could be indistinctly seen a person of majestic, imposing appearance, whose long beard and floating hair, whose ample robes of silk and gold cross, clearly indicated his character; he was, in fact, a priest of the Greek Church. He had not, however, come to this sad place to exercise his ministry. One of the poor men suffering from the contagious disease was the object of his charity, and he had come to visit him. He was passing along without looking around, even turning his eyes away as much as possible from the sad spectacle that surrounded him, when Clement's hand on his arm stopped him as he was passing Felix's bed.
“What do you wish of me, young man?” he asked, with surprise.
“I implore you,” said Clement, [pg 615] “to come to this dying man who is truly contrite for his sins, with a sincere desire to confess them if he had the strength. Have the kindness to give him sacramental absolution!”
In spite of the place, the hour, the awful solemnity of the moment, the young Catholic girl started at hearing these words; her large eyes opened with an expression of the keenest surprise, and turned towards Clement with a mute glance of anxiety. He understood her, and, while the infirmarian was interpreting his words which had been heard but not understood, he replied: “This is a priest, Gabrielle, invested with all the authority of Holy Orders. In the presence of death, we can avail ourselves of it, without regard to anything else.”
He knelt down. Fleurange did the same. The dying man clasped his hands, and, whilst the word “forgive” once more trembled on his lips, the Greek priest raised his right hand with a majestic air, and pronounced over him the merciful, divine words of holy absolution!
To Be Continued.
Cologne.
What is more familiar than the name of Cologne? What is more delicious than the perfume of the veritable Jean Maria Farina? What is more delightful than the receipt of a box, with the stereotyped picture on the cover of the Rhine lazily flowing under the bridges, of the cathedral looming up to the sky, of the houses clustering around it as though for protection?