Gothic shape shed its streams of uneven light sometimes more, sometimes
less strongly upon the bed and showed the form of the old man in
ever-varying aspects. The cold air whistled through the insecure windows,
and the snow beat with a dull sound against the panes.

This scene formed so striking a contrast to the one which Don Juan had
just left that he could not help shuddering. He felt cold when, on
approaching the bed, a sudden flare of light, caused by a gust of wind,
illumined his father's face. The features were distorted; the skin,
clinging tightly to the bones, had a greenish tint, which was made the
more horrible by the whiteness of the pillows on which the old man rested;
drawn with pain, the mouth, gaping and toothless, gave breath to sighs
which the howling of the tempest took Tip and drew out into a dismal wail.
In spite of these signs of dissolution an incredible expression of power
shone in the face. The eyes, hallowed by disease, retained a singular
steadiness. A superior spirit was fighting there with death. It seemed as
if Bartholomeo sought to kill with his dying look some enemy seated at the
foot of his bed. This gaze, fixed and cold, was made the more appalling by
the immobility of the head, which was like a skull standing on a doctor's
table. The body, clearly outlined by the coverlet, showed that the dying
man's limbs preserved the same rigidity. All was dead, except the eyes.
There was something mechanical in the sounds which came from the mouth.
Don Juan felt a certain shame at having come to the deathbed of his father
with a courtesan's bouquet on his breast, bringing with him the odors of a
banquet and the fumes of wine.

"You were enjoying yourself!" cried the old man, on seeing his son.

At the same moment the pure, high voice of a singer who entertained the
guests, strengthened by the chords of the viol by which she was