. . . He
had preferred the service of God to that of his earthly master. For
this they banished him and made him suffer. He was dying now--dying to
save mankind. He was giving up his life for sinners. Someone else had
once done the same thing. Who was it? He could not remember. People who
read and write--they know these things. Some saint, possibly; or at
least a man from another province--someone he had never met or spoken
to. A good Russian, whoever it was. But the name--the name had slipped
out of his mind. He always had a good memory for faces, but a bad one
for names.
He was so ill and oppressed too. Worse than before. He felt himself
rotting earthwards, like a fungus of his own native forests under
autumn rains. His body remained inert but his eye, roaming away from
the straw pallet, fixed itself upon the door. When, when would that
kindly gentleman with the instrument arrive?
CHAPTER XXXVII
Concerning the life and death of Saint Eulalia, patroness of Nepenthean
sailors, we possess ample and accurate information.
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