She opened her eyes, if such a slow unclosing of the lids could be so called, revealing two wells of opaque blackness. A quick sigh escaped the lips of the three nuns. Sister Eulalia heard, and slowly knelt, ready to receive the word should such be sent.
The reverend Mother’s colorless lips moved. At first no sound issued from them. Then, with strange forceful vibration, her voice broke the waiting stillness.
“Woe!” she cried. “Woe! ‘The Fiend, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour!’”
Four withered hands hastily made the sign of the cross.
Heavily as they had lifted, the waxen lids closed over the opaque black eyes. The rigid body relaxed slightly, and the Mother Superior relapsed into her wonted insensibility.
“We are surely to be tempted!” said Sister Eulalia. “Sisters, we must be strong to resist the Fiend.” Sister Teresa nodded. “We are warned,” she added.
Very gently Sister Catalina assured herself of the comfort of the reverend Mother, and the four aged nuns turned to their tasks again, but with beating hearts. The Fiend would beset them soon, and in some dreadful guise. Sister Rose breathed a prayer for strength, as she filled the tiny red lamp burning ever before the waxen image. Sister Teresa hurriedly began “Aves,” as she peeled an onion; Sister Catalina’s “paternosters” preceded her into the garden; and Sister Eulalia’s beads slipped hastily through her knotted fingers as she returned to the mechanical perfection of her work at the loom.
“As a roaring lion!”--Sister Eulalia’s blind eyes could conjure more dreadful sights than the faded vision of her less afflicted companions would ever see. Now she brought them before her in endless array of horror. She would know him only by his roar, she thought, and he might creep up close noiselessly. Her ear was alert to the lightest sound. But the day wore on and no roaring beast came with hellish clamor to affright the gentle recluse.
[Illustration: Drawn by N. C. Wyeth. Half-tone plate engraved by H. Davidson
“THE FIVE WHITE-CLAD ANCIENT WOMEN WHO, MORNING AND EVENING, CROSSED THE PATIO TO THE CHAPEL”]
Sister Catalina entered the patio from the garden-close, a yellow hill-rose in her hand to pleasure her afflicted companion with its subtle peppery scent; an act not sanctioned by the drastic rules of the convent. But years upon years had rolled by, bringing a gentle sagging of discipline. Occasionally one of the few priests who still clung to the wrecked cathedrals came to hear confessions of puerile and trifling misdemeanors, and a severer penance than a dozen “Aves” was unknown and unmerited. Sister Eulalia inhaled the rose’s fragrance gratefully. Her blunt, weaving-calloused fingers sought and found the soft petals of the flower with loving touch.