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And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter holding the cup to her lips. On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, "She imagines that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco?
And Gigi came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday. "What shall we do now?" Peter asked of Sister Scholastica. "There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose," said the sister. "Could I ask him to come?" Peter doubted. "Certainly," said the sister.
But people of her class always fancy they are going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments." So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco.
The Parrocco was a courteous man, quite a peasant, and too young to know much about the past generation. He gave Clement a refection of white bread, goats' milk cheese, and coffee, and held up his hands on the declining of his thin wine. There was a kind of register of baptisms, and Giovanni Batista Benista was hunted out, and it was found that if alive he would be over seventy years old.
Nothing daunted by the spectacle, this gallant woman, as soon as the shock had ceased and the clouds of dust rising from the ruin had cleared away, left her own dismantled home, of which nothing but the one wall that had sheltered her remained standing, and joined the parrocco, the parish priest of Casamicciola, in the task of succouring the living and comforting the dying.
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