her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side
was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had
pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain. Over against
his bed were these words, copied in the English version "Therefore,
if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink."

Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like
some famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp
tinkle, but that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries
tells of the passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity;
and again a murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with
awed breath, "A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!"

Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried
into the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the
high altar, lay a woman--lay Sister Magdalen--lay Bridget Fitzgerald.
By her side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding
the crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the
Church, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin. I
pushed on with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying
woman, as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed
hush of the multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were
stiffening; but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her
gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange
intensity of joy, as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-
like gleam of her eye, she seemed like one who watched the
disappearance of some loathed and fearful creature.

"She is freed from the curse!" said she, as she fell back dead.