ir nor table; and the brass lamp was set
upon the floor, near a heaped-up bed of rushes and dried leaves upon
which I beheld the anchorite himself. He was lying upon his back, and
seemed a vigorous, able-bodied man of a good length.

He wore a loose brown habit roughly tied about his middle by a piece of
rope from which was suspended an enormous string of beads. His beard and
hair were black, but his face was livid as a corpse's, and as I looked
at him he emitted a fresh groan, and writhed as if in mortal suffering.

"O my God! My God!" I heard him crying. "Am I to die alone? Mercy! I
repent me!" And he writhed moaning, and rolled over on his side so that
he faced me, and I saw that his livid countenance was glistening with
sweat.

I stepped aside and lifted the latch of the rude door.

"Are you suffering, father?" I asked, almost fearfully. At the sound of
my voice, he suddenly sat up, and there was a great fear in his eyes.
Then he fell back again with a cry.

"I thank Thee, my God! I thank Thee!"

I entered, and crossing to his side, I went down on my knees beside him.

Without giving me time to speak, he clutched my arm with one of his
clammy hands, and raised himself painfully upon his elbow, his eyes
burning with the fever that was in him.

"A priest!" he gasped. "Get me a priest! Oh, if you would be saved
from the flames of everlasting Hell, get me a priest to shrive me. I am
dying, and I would not go hence with the burden of all this sin upon my
soul."

I could feel the heat of his hand through the sleeve of my coat. His
condition was plain. A raging fever was burning out his life.

"Be comforted," I said. "I will go at once." And I rose, whilst he
poured forth his blessings upon me.

At the door I checked to ask what was the nearest place.

"Casi," he said hoarsely. "To your right, you will see the path down the
hill-side. You cannot miss it. In half an hour you should be there. And
return at once, for I have not long. I feel it."

With a last word of reassurance and comfort I closed the door, and
plunged away into the darkness.

CHAPTER V. THE RENUNCIATION

I found the path the hermit spoke of, and followed its sinuous
downhill course, now running when the ground was open, now moving more
cautiously, yet always swiftly, when it led me through places darkened
by trees.

At the end of a half-hour I espied below me the twinkling lights of a
village on the hill-side, and a few minutes l