Part 9 (2/2)

He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to believe that this strong young man was dying.

”I lost my valise when I fell,” he said, opening his eyes again and speaking in a tranquil tone; ”but there was nothing of value in it. My money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take possession of it.”

He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket under his blue blouse.

”You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant,” he said; ”you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that I give it to you, and let me sign the paper.”

”Presently,” said Roland; ”you must not exert yourself. I shall find your name and address here?”

”I have no address; of course I have a name,” he answered; ”but never mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save sinners?”

”Yes,” said Roland reluctantly; ”He says, 'I came to seek and to save that which was lost.' Those are His own words.”

”Kneel down quickly,” murmured the dying man. ”Say 'Our Father!' so that I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me.”

”And she is dead?” said Roland.

”Years ago,” he gasped.

Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the att.i.tude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the self-same pet.i.tions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had finished, and grasped his warmly.

”G.o.d bless you!” he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound disturbed the unbroken silence.

CHAPTER XIV.

ON THE ALTAR STEPS.

It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died.

For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud, and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church, and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track.

The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It was plain that she did not know him.

How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse and coa.r.s.e clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair was s.h.a.ggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused.

”Felicita,” he said, not daring to draw closer to her.

”I am here,” she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark, mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears.

Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had just died had pa.s.sed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling on the lowest step deep in prayer.

”I come from watching a fellow-man die,” he said at last; ”would to G.o.d it had been myself!”

”Yes!” sighed Felicita, ”that would have been best for us all.”

”You wish me dead!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish.

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