She was standing near the bed, holding in
her hand a cup which she was offering the sick woman, who had awakened.
She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond. Her beauty
was not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Her large, dark eyes
were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes, that shone with
approaching death, returned her gaze. There was, in that simple exchange
of kindness and gratitude, a beauty that can not be described.
The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over the
lonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. The
noise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchained
elements, made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed in
the little cottage. I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows,
the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest, I observed the
helpless despair of the farmer, the superstitious terror of the children,
the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and when, in the
midst of all that, I saw that gentle, pale-faced woman, going and coming,
bravely meeting the duties of the moment regardless of the tempest, and
of our presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performance
something more serene than the most cloudless sky, and that there was
something superhuman about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors,
did not for an instant, lose her faith in God.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135