When I need help I shall ring the Convent bell." Immovable in the passage stood the Bishop, until every figure had vanished; every door had closed.
Then he re-entered the Prioress's cell, and shut the door.
He placed the holy oil on the step, before the shrine of the Madonna, just where old Antony had knelt when she had prayed our blessed Lady to be pleased to sharpen her old wits.
Then he drew forth a tiny flask of rare Italian workmanship, let fall a few drops from it into a spoonful of wine, and firmly poured the liquid between the old lay-sister's parted lips.
One anxious moment; then he heard her swallow.
At that, the Bishop drew the Prioress's chair to the side of the couch, and sat down to await events.
In a few moments the stertorous breathing ceased, the open mouth closed.

Mary Antony sighed thrice, as a little child that has wept before sleeping sighs in its sleep.
Then she opened her eyes, and fixed them on the Bishop.
"Reverend Father"-- she began, then chuckled, gleefully.

Her voice had come back, and with it a great activity of brain, though the hands upon the coverlet seemed to belong to someone else, and she hoped they would not rise up and strike her.

Her feet, she could not feel at all; but, seeing that she was most comfortably lying there where she best loved to be, why should she require feet?
Feet are such tired things.

One rests better without them.
"Speak low," said the Bishop, bending forward.