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"Deliver, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant from all danger of hell and from all pain and tribulation." "Amen." "Deliver, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant Zeen, as Thou deliveredst Enoch and Elias from the common death of the world." "Amen." "Deliver, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant Zeen, as Thou deliveredst...." "I'm on fire! I'm on fire!" howled Warten. "My smock! My smock!"
When she saw that Zeen lay very calmly and no longer breathed, she sprinkled him with holy water for the last time and then went outside: "People ... he's with the Lord." It was as if their fright had made them forget what was happening indoors: they rushed in, eager to know ... and Zeen was dead. "Stone-dead," said Barbara. "Hopped the twig!" said Warten. "Quick! Hurry!
Zalia made the sign of the Cross and closed her husband's eyes; then she laid a white towel on a little table by the bed and put the candle on it and the crucifix and the holy water. Warten and Barbara took Zeen out of the bed and put him on a chair, washed him all over with luke-warm water, put a clean shirt on him and his Sunday clothes over him; then they laid him on the bed again.
Warten would go to the priest early in the morning and to the carpenter: the priest ought to have been here, 'twas a comfort after all; but Zeen had always been good and ... now to go dying all at once like this, without the sacraments.... Why couldn't she sleep now?
Nina found herself mixing her sentences like Neapolitan ice cream into four languages, until finally she put her hands over her ears and exclaimed, "Attendez, aspetarre, warten sie nur, oh, do let us decide on one tongue at a time!" They all laughed, and then, as is usual among a group of various nationalities, the conversation went on in French.
"Well, perhaps I've come at the right time, if that's so." "You can help sit up." "Have you had your supper, Warten?" "Yes, Zalia, at the farm." "And how's trade?" asked Stanse. "Quietly, old girl." They heard a moaning in the other room. Barbara lit the lantern and all went to look. Warten stayed behind, smoking.
"In France, the two oldest ... and there's Miel, the soldier ... it's in their letters, behind the glass." "Give 'em to me," said Treze. "I'll make my boy write to-morrow, before he goes to school." They were going off. "And I, who, with this all, don't know where I'm to sleep," said Warten. "My old roost, over the goat-house: you'll be wanting that to-night, Zalia?" Zalia wavered.
In the Armenian convent we met with Joseph Warten, an excellent mathematician and astronomer; he was pastor at Neusatz, near Peterwardein in Hungary, and he was making a tour through Europe.
Then they set to work: Treze filled the little glasses; Barbara hung the water over the fire; and Warten, in his shirt-sleeves, stropped his razor to shave Zeen's beard. "And the children! The children who are not here!" moaned Zalia. "He ought to have seen the children!" "First say the prayers," ordered Virginie.
"We haven't any mustard and it's far to the village." "Then he must have a bran bath, Zalia. Stanse, put on the kettle." "Have you any bran, Zalia?" "No, not ready; but there's maize." "And a sieve?" "Yes, there's a sieve." "Hi, Warten, come and sift!" Warten came in: "Zeen, how are you, my boy? Oh, how thin he is! And his breath ... it's spluttering, that's bad.
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