Part 17 (2/2)
”And what's that chap doing here, Zalia?”
”It's I, Zeen, I: Warten the spectacle-man.”
His eyes fell to again and his cheeks again blew the breath through the little slit of his mouth. It rattled; and the fever rose.
”It'll be to-night,” said Treze.
”Where can Virginie be? She'll come too late.”
”Virginie is better than three doctors or a priest either,” thought Mite.
”Zalia, I think I'd get out the candle.”
Zalia went to the chest and got out the candle.
”Mother, I'm frightened,” whined Fietje.
”You mustn't be frightened of dead people, child; you must get used to it.”
”Have you any holy water, Zalia?”
”Oh, yes, Barbara: it's in the little pot over the bed!”
”And blessed palm?”
”Behind the crucifix.”
There was a creaking in the kitchen and Virginie appeared past the loom: a little old woman huddled in her hooded cloak; in one hand she carried a little lantern and in the other a big prayer-book. She came quietly up to the bed, looked at Zeen for some time, felt his pulse and then, looking up, said, very quietly:
”Zeen's going.... Has the priest been?”
”The priest?... It's so far and so late and the poor soul's so old....”
”What have you given him?”
”Haarlem oil, English salt....”
”And we put his feet in bran water.”
Virginie stood thinking.
”Have you any linseed-meal?” she asked.
”No.”
”Then ... but it's too late now, any way....”
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