"My sick brother," he went on, "both as one that has some science of leech-craft and as thy ghostly counsellor, it is my duty to warn thee that thou art now very near thine end.

Nay, let me feel thy pulse"; and seizing my left wrist, he grasped it lightly in his iron fingers.

"Now, ere I administer to thee thy due, as a Christian man, let me hear thy parting confession.

But, alas! as the blessed Maid too truly warned thee, thou must not open thy poor lips in speech.

There is death in a word! Write, then, write the story of thy sinful life, that I may give thee absolution." So saying, he opened the shutter, and carefully set the paper and inkhorn before me, putting the pen in my fingers.
"Now, write what I shall tell thee"; and here he so pressed and wrung my wrist that his fingers entered into my living flesh with a fiery pang.