He paused, and for the first time Florence spoke.

“My father, tell me every wish; fear nothing for me, there is nothing I cannot bear now.”

“For my sake, Florence, if not for your own, will you promise to be guided by Father Mazzolin?”

“Do you mean in matters of religion, my father?”

“I mean in all things:  matters of interest, as well as matters of faith.  He will assist you much, if you will but follow his advice and directions.”

There was a pause, and then Florence said slowly, as if weighing every word—­“Rest assured your wishes shall be my law.  I will consult the Padre as you desire.”

With a look of relief the dying man sank back on his pillow, and closed his eyes.  Florence quickly summoned the physician, and her aunt and cousin.  A little while after, as Mr. Hamilton’s eye fell on the weeping Mary, he extended his hand, and when she bent over him, drew her face down, and imprinted a long kiss on her pale cheek.  Even as he did so, a dark form glided to the bedside.  Another moment, the uncle and niece were separated; none knew how, yet the Padre stood between, whispering low in the sufferer’s ear.  Almost gasping for breath, the latter intimated his desire to confess for the last time.  And they were left alone.

Nearly an hour after, the priest entered the apartment where Florence and Mary sat.  He trembled visibly, yet, in his usual tone, said that he wished the family to be present at the last rites about to be performed for the dying Papist.  They immediately repaired to the sick room, and the spectacle there presented made Mary quiver in every limb.  The sufferer had been placed for convenience on a low couch, and was supported by pillows in an upright position.  A dozen candles burnt around him, and a cloud of incense wreathed slowly along the wall.  The room had been profusely sprinkled with holy water, and a chalice containing the consecrated wafer, sat near.  Gasping for breath, Mr. Hamilton clasped a crucifix to his lips, though unable from weakness to secure it there; for twice it fell from his fingers, and rolled to the floor.

Father Mazzolin, attired in a surplice ornamented with the insignia of his order, stood beside the bed, holding in one hand a superbly-bound volume—­in the other, a silver cup containing oil.

After a moment’s pause he opened the book, and hurriedly read in a low, muttering tone, a Latin service of several pages.  At the conclusion he carefully poured out a few drops of the oil, and just touched the palms of the sufferer’s hands and the soles of his feet, bidding him at the same time cross himself.  Perceiving that he was utterly unable to do so, he hastily signed the figure and resumed his reading.  How long he would have gabbled on it is impossible to say, but a gasping sound from the dying man declared that dissolution was at hand, and, snatching the chalice, he hastily administered the wafer, which was swallowed with difficulty.  For the third time, Father Mazzolin strove to replace the crucifix in his hand and bend it to his lips.  The cold fingers refused to clasp the consecrated wood, and sank, stiffened and powerless, by his side.