stands a withered old woman. Against the wall is a stone bench where another woman is seated.
As we enter, we hear her, standing at the wicket, talking to someone behind the scene.
“Yes, that is the name of my husband,” says she. “Allah have mercy on his soul,” sighs an exiguous voice within; “pray for him, pray for him.”
And the woman, taking to weeping, blubbers out, “Will thirty masses do, think your Reverence?”
“Yes, that will cheer his soul,” replies the oracle.
The old woman thereupon enters the chapel, pays the priest or serving-monk therein, one hundred piasters for thirty masses, and goes away in tears.
The next woman rises to the gate.
“I am the mother of—,” she says.
“Ah, the mother of—,” repeats the exiguous voice. “How are you? (She must be an old customer.) How is your husband? How are your children? And those in America, are they well, are they prosperous? Yes, yes, your deceased son. Well, h’m—h’m—you must come again. I can not tell you anything yet. Come again next week.”
And she, too, visits the chapel, counts out some money to the serving-monk, and leaves the Hermitage, drying her tears.
The Reader, who must have recognised the squeaking, snuffling, exiguous voice, knows not perhaps that the Hermit, in certain moments