Pray the prayer for the dying!'
A shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched. Then he
struggled again to free himself- turning and twisting himself this way
and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately- but uselessly-
to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down
upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife,
mumbling, from time to time, 'The moments are precious, they are few
and precious- pray the prayer for the dying!'
The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles,
panting. The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other, down
his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect upon
the savage old man.
The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up
sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice:
'I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is already gone.
It seems but a moment- only a moment; would it had endured a year!
Seed of the Church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an thou
fearest to look upon...'
The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old man sank
upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the
moaning boy-
Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin- the knife
dropped from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and
started up, trembling. The sounds increased, and presently the
voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for help;
then a clatter of swift footsteps retreating.
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