He had sat by the hearth a long, long time, absorbed in his
thoughts, not once looking round toward the bed, when he was
startled by hearing the sound of his grandfather's voice once
more.
"Gabriel," whispered the old man, trembling and shrinking as he
spoke, "Gabriel, do you hear a dripping of water--now slow, now
quick again--on the floor at the foot of my bed?"
"I hear nothing, grandfather, but the crackling of the fire, and
the roaring of the storm outside."
"Drip, drip, drip! Faster and faster; plainer and plainer. Take
the torch, Gabriel; look down on the floor--look with all your
eyes. Is the place wet there? Is it the rain from heaven that is
dropping through the roof?"
Gabriel took the torch with trembling fingers and knelt down on
the floor to examine it closely. He started back from the place,
as he saw that it was quite dry--the torch dropped upon the
hearth--he fell on his knees before the statue of the Virgin and
hid his face.
"Is the floor wet? Answer me, I command you--is the floor wet?"
asked the old man, quickly and breathlessly.
Gabriel rose, went back to the bedside, and whispered to him that
no drop of rain had fallen inside the cottage. As he spoke the
words, he saw a change pass over his grandfather's face--the
sharp features seemed to wither up on a sudden; the eager
expression to grow vacant and death-like in an instant.
Pages:
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331