For nearly three hours did they remain in this situation; poor Lanigan sinking by degrees into that collapsed state from which there is no possibility of rallying. He was merely able to speak; and recognize his family; but every moment advanced him, with awful certainty, nearer and nearer to his end..
A great number of the neighbors were now assembled, all participating in the awful feeling which predominated, and anxious to compensate by their prayers for the absence of that confidence derived by Roman Catholics during the approach of death, from the spiritual aid of the priest. They were all at prayer; the sick-room and kitchen were crowded with his friends and acquaintances, many of whom knelt out before the door, and joined with loud voices in the Rosary which was offered up in his behalf.
In this crisis were they, when a horseman, dressed in black, approached the house. Every head was instantly turned round, with a hope that it might be the parish priest or his curate; but, alas! they were doomed to experience a fresh disappointment. The stranger, though clerical enough in his appearance, presented a countenance with which none of them was acquainted. On glancing at the group who knelt around the door, he appeared to understand the melancholy cause which brought them together.
“How is this?” he exclaimed. “Is there any one here sick or dying?”
“Poor Misther Lanigan, sir, is jist departing glory be to God! An' what is terrible all out upon himself and family, he's dyin' widout the priest. They're both at Conwhirence, sir, and can't come—Mr. Dogherty an' his curate.”
“Make way!” said the stranger, throwing himself off his horse, and passing quickly through the people. “Show me to the sick man's room—be quick, my friends—I am a Catholic clergyman.”
In a moment a passage was cleared, and the stranger found himself beside the bed of death. Grief in the room was loud and bitter; but his presence stilled it despite of what they felt.
“My dear friends,” said he, “you know there should be silence in the apartment of a dying man. For shame!—for shame! Cease this clamor, it will but distract him for whom you weep, and prevent him from composing his mind for the great trial that is before him.”
“Sir,” said Lanigan's wife, seizing his hand in both hers, and looking distractedly in his face, “are you a priest? For heaven's sake tell us?”
“I am,” he replied; “leave the room every one of you. I hope your husband is not speechless?”