They thought she had only fainted, and while Baptiste administered simple remedies to her, Pierre, the erring one, knelt by the bedside with his face buried in the hand that had held the knife so firmly and that had struck the brute, lying so quietly out there in the moonlight, so fierce a blow.  Tears, the first that had fallen from his eyes since he was a boy, fell and trickled through the fingers that were now so wan and thin and that had toiled so hard for him.  How she had longed to see tears in his eyes and hear penitent words from his lips, and now his tears were drenching her fingers, and he was telling her in a choked voice how bitterly he repented of his drunkenness and his disregard of the Church, and all his evil ways, and how he would reform and be a son to her indeed; yet she heard him not.

So deep was his grief that he did not raise his head, or he would have noticed how deathly pale her face was and how very light her breathing had become.  Suddenly his grief ceased; a great fear had entered his heart—­What caused the hand that his face was hid in to be so clammy and cold?  It had not been so when he first pressed it to his face.  “She is dead,” whispered his heart brutally.  “It is a lie, a wicked lie! she is not dead,” he muttered.  “Raise your head and see, raise your head and see,” reiterated his heart monotonously.  He had no reply to make to such an answer as this.  Slowly he raised his shaking hands to his face, still not daring to look up, and again took her hand in his.  A chill seemed to emanate from it which reached his very heart.  Slowly his head began to rise.  From the foot of the bed his eyes gradually crept up and up, past her feet, past her knees, past the bosom that had nourished him; inch by inch, higher and higher, till at last they rested on her face, and then he uttered a great cry and started to his feet.

As he stood and looked, his father entered the room, in one hand a medicine bottle, in the other a bowl of water.  He, too, saw the change that had come over her since he had left the room to get the simple remedies, and forgetting all about the things he was carrying, opened his hands and stretched them out toward her, and would have fallen had not Pierre caught him and led him over to the bed.

“Wife, wife!” he cried; but the quiet expression of her face did not change.

The sight of his father’s sorrow recalled Pierre out of the dazed condition into which he had fallen.

“She is dead, father,” he whispered falteringly.

“No, no, Pierre, she has only fainted!” he shouted fiercely.  “You do not know what death is.  Quick, Pierre; quick, son, bring me the medicine, the hot water; quick, quick, the—­the—­”

Poor old Baptiste! he could go no further.  He ceased rubbing her hands, staggered over to Pierre, who was standing with averted face in the middle of the room, buried his head in his bosom and said brokenly: