The musician gently opened the door. The servant silently greeted him
and turned towards the stairs to call Belotti; for the "player-man" had
already enquired more than once for the steward.

Wilhelm entered the little room where he usually waited, and for the
first time found another visitor there, but in a somewhat peculiar
attitude. Father Damianus sat bolt upright in an arm-chair, with his
head drooping on one side, sound asleep. The face of the priest, a man
approaching his fortieth year, was as pink and white as a child's, and
framed by a thin light-brown beard. A narrow circle of thin light hair
surrounded his large tonsure, and a heavy dark rosary of olive-wood beads
hung from the sleeper's hands. A gentle, kindly smile hovered around his
half-parted lips.

"This mild saint in long woman's robes doesn't look as if he could grasp
anything strongly" thought Wilhelm, "yet his hands are callous and have
toiled hard."

When Belotti entered the room and saw the sleeping priest, he carefully
pushed a pillow under his head and beckoned to Wilhelm to follow him into
the entry.

"We won't grudge him a little rest," said the Italian. "He has sat
beside the padrona's bed from yesterday noon until two hours ago.
Usually she doesn't know what is going on around her, but as soon as
consciousness returns she wants religious consolation. She still refuses
to take the sacrament for the dying, for she won't admit that she is
approaching her end. Yet often, when the disease attacks her more
sharply, she asks in mortal terror if everything is ready, for she is
afraid to die without extreme unction."