The
voice, too, altered; it was harsh and querulous no more; its
tones became strangely soft, slow, and solemn, when the old man
spoke again.
"I hear it still," he said, "drip! drip! faster and plainer than
ever. That ghostly dropping of water is the last and the surest
of the fatal signs which have told of your father's and your
brother's deaths to-night, and I know from the place where I hear
it--the foot of the bed I lie on--that it is a warning to me of
my own approaching end. I am called where my son and my grandson
have gone before me; my weary time in this world is over at last.
Don't let Perrine and the children come in here, if they should
awake--they are too young to look at death."
Gabriel's blood curdled when he heard these words--when he
touched his grandfather's hand, and felt the chill that it struck
to his own--when he listened to the raging wind, and knew that
all help was miles and miles away from the cottage. Still, in
spite of the storm, the darkness, and the distance, he thought
not for a moment of neglecting the duty that had been taught him
from his childhood--the duty of summoning the priest to the
bedside of the dying. "I must call Perrine," he said, "to watch by
you while I am away."
"Stop!" cried the old man. "Stop, Gabriel; I implore, I command
you not to leave me!"
"The priest, grandfather--your confession--"
"It must be made to you.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332