in; and
though my head burns and aches more than enough.--Water, a drink of
water.--How comfortable I could be at this moment with my Joanna, in
our shady house.--But yet, but yet--we must heal or save, it is all the
same, any who need it.--A drink--wine and water, if it is to be had,
worthy Mother!"

The abbess had it at hand; as she put the cup to his lips she spoke her
warm and effusive thanks, and many words of comfort; then she asked him
what she could do for him and his, when they should be in safety.

"Love them truly," he said gently. "Pul will certainly never be quite
happy till she is in a convent. But she must not leave her mother--she
must stay with her; Joanna-Joanna...."

He repeated the name several times as if the sound pleased his ear
and heart. Then he shuddered again and again, and muttered to himself:
"Brrr!--a cold shiver runs all over me--it is of no use!--The cut in my
shoulder.--It is my head that hurts worst, but the other--it is bad luck
that it should have fallen on the left side. And yet, no; it is best so;
for if he--if it had damaged my right shoulder I could not write, and I
must--I must-before it is too late. A tablet and stylus; quick,
quick! And when I have written, good mother, close the tablet and seal
it--close and tight. Promise! Only one person may read it, he to whom it
must go.--Gibbus, do you hear, Gibbus?--It is for Philippus the leech.
Take it to him.--Your dream about a rose on your hump, if I read
rightly, means that peace and joy in Heaven blossom from our misery on
earth.--Yes, to Philippus. And listen my old school friend Christodorus,
a leech too, lives at Doomiat. Take my body to him--mind me now? He is
to pack it with sand which will preserve it, and have it buried by the
side of my mother at Alexandria. Joanna and the child--they can come and
visit me there. I have not much to leave; whatever that may cost...."

"That is my affair, or the convent's," cried the abbess.

"Matters are not so bad as that," said the old man smiling. "I can pay
for my own share of the business; your revenue belongs to the poor,
noble Mother.--You will find more than enough in this wallet, good
Gibbus. But now, quick, make haste--the tablets."

When he had one in his hand, and a stylus for writing with, he thought
for some time, and then wrote with trembling fingers, though exerting
all his strength. How acutely he was suffering could be seen in
his drawn mouth and sad eyes, but he wou