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from the others. I went to see him next morning
with Sœur Marthe. The room was semi-dark.
The bandage covered his whole face and I could
see nothing but his eyes. I shall never forget the
expression of those eyes, they used to haunt me
for years afterwards. His breathing was short
and irregular, with intervals like the
Cheyne-Stokes respiration—the well-known precursory
symptom of death. He talked with vertiginous
rapidity in a hoarse voice, now and then
interrupted by a wild cry of distress or a hooting moan
which made me shudder. I listened for a while
to the rush of unknown words half-drowned in the
flow of saliva, and soon I thought I distinguished
one same word repeated incessantly, with an
almost desperate accent:
“Crestitsa! Crestitsa! Crestitsa!” I looked
attentively at his eyes, kind, humble, imploring
eyes.
“He is conscious,” I whispered to Sœur
Marthe, “he wants something. I wish I knew
what it is. Listen!”
“Crestitsa! Crestitsa! Crestitsa!” he called
out incessantly.
“Run and fetch a crucifix,” I said to the nun.
We laid the crucifix on the bed. The flow
of words ceased instantly. He lay there quite
silent, his eyes fixed on the crucifix. His
breathing grew fainter and fainter. Suddenly the
muscles of his giant body stiffened in a last violent
contraction and the heart stood still.
The next day another moujik showed
unmistakable signs of hydrophobia, and soon another,
and three days later they were all raving mad.
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