The stranger, though clerical enough
in his appearance, presented a countenance with which none of them
was acquainted. On glancing at the group who knelt around the door, he
appeared to understand the melancholy cause which brought them together.
"How is this?" he exclaimed. "Is there any one here sick or dying?"
"Poor Misther Lanigan, sir, is jist departing glory be to God! An'
what is terrible all out upon himself and family, he's dyin' widout the
priest. They're both at Conwhirence, sir, and can't come--Mr. Dogherty
an' his curate."
"Make way!" said the stranger, throwing himself off his horse, and
passing quickly through the people. "Show me to the sick man's room--be
quick, my friends--I am a Catholic clergyman."
In a moment a passage was cleared, and the stranger found himself
beside the bed of death. Grief in the room was loud and bitter; but his
presence stilled it despite of what they felt.
"My dear friends," said he, "you know there should be silence in the
apartment of a dying man. For shame!--for shame! Cease this clamor, it
will but distract him for whom you weep, and prevent him from composing
his mind for the great trial that is before him."
"Sir," said Lanigan's wife, seizing his hand in both hers, and looking
distractedly in his face, "are you a priest? For heaven's sake tell us?"
"I am," he replied; "leave the room every one of you. I hope your
husband is not speechless?"
"Sweet Queen of Heaven, not yet, may her name be praised! but near it,
your Reverence--widin little or no time of it.
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