Two years of loneliness; when his brother and his cousins and his tutor, who should have been his comrades, were his persecutors; two years in which he was always under a strain, always having to control his anger, to be patient and sweet-tempered amidst a thousand vexations; two years, moreover, in which the bodily exercise he was used to, and which he needed as every growing boy needs it, was cut down to a minimum; two such years would have broken the health even of a grown, strong man. And Stanislaus was not a grown, strong man, but a boy of sixteen. It is remarkable that he should have held out so long. It shows what courage and goodness and trust in God can do. But finally, towards the end of November, 1566, his body and brain could stand it no longer. He fell sick, with fever.
He was not a baby. He did not complain, or even tell any one that he felt unwell. He kept to his feet for weeks, trying to go on as usual with his work and his prayers. The feast of Saint Barbara, who had been the patroness of the boys' sodality in Vienna, was drawing near. Stanislaus prepared for it with particular care and devotion. Saint Barbara was the patroness of a happy death and her clients always besought of her the special grace of receiving the Holy Viaticum when dying.
December 4th, the feast of the Saint, came and passed. Stanislaus grew weaker, his fever increased. About the middle of the month he had to keep his bed, and his condition quickly became serious. Then Bilinski and Paul forgot their anger against the boy. They called in the best physicians of the city, they spared no pains or expense. The servants, who had always loved this gentle master, were all kindness and attention. But despite the efforts of all, Stanislaus became steadily worse.
He was entirely at peace, not at all afraid. Yet he felt that death was coming near. He prayed whole hours, smiling gladly in talk with our Lord, with the Blessed Virgin, with his guardian angel. He was ready, even eager, to go home. The evil spirit wondered at this boy of sixteen, who had fought him off so bravely through his life and who was dying now so fearlessly.
One day, when his people and even the servants had left him for a little while, Stanislaus saw an enormous black dog with glaring eyes and hideous foaming jaws rush across the room toward his bed. The door was closed. It was impossible for the beast to have entered the room in any ordinary way. Stanislaus had no notion how it could have come there. But if he was frightened for the moment, he did not lose his wits. With an effort, he sat up in bed and made the sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost!" he cried aloud. Instantly the huge, snarling dog fell to the floor with a thud as if struck by a sword. But after a few moments he sprang up again, and first circling the room, came crouching to the bed, howling as no mortal dog could howl, making ready to spring at the sick boy. Again Stanislaus made the sign of the cross. Again the terrible dog was stricken to the floor. A third time he came, only to be beaten back in the same way. And then, standing with bristling hair and horrible cries in the middle of the room, he vanished from sight. Stanislaus fell back on the bed, fearfully exhausted, and with tears in his eyes thanked God for his deliverance.
The shock of this dreadful incident prostrated him. He failed more and more. The doctors, coming several times a day, shook their heads in despair.
"We can do no more," they said, "the end is now only a question of time."
For seven days and nights Bilinski sat by his bed, snatching only a few hours' sleep now and then, for he feared that Stanislaus might die any moment.
Yet in all this long time they had brought no priest to the dying boy. Every day he begged them earnestly that he might receive the Holy Viaticum. But they lied to him. Bilinski said:
"You will soon be well. The doctors will cure you. Don't think of death or go frightening yourself."