She died quietly--so quietly. A little before the end she had been
restless, lying with a pucker on her brow, and eyes that asked
pitiably for something--I could not guess what, until she turned them
to the chair, over the back of which (for the day was sultry), I had
tossed my coat.
I reached for the coat and slipped it on. Her eyes grew glad at
once.
"Closer!" she whispered. As I bent closer, she nestled her face
against it. "_La macchia! . . . la macchia!_"
With that last breath, drawing in the scent of it, she laid her head
slowly back, and slept.
The Bavarelli took it for granted that I would bury her in the
graveyard, down the valley. But I consulted with Brother Polifilo.
I argued that every high mountain-top by its very nature came within
the definition of consecrated ground; and after a show of reluctance
he accepted the heresy, on condition I allowed him first to visit the
spot chosen and recite the prayer of consecration over it.
We laid her in the coffin that Brother Polifilo brought, and carried
her to the summit of the mountain overlooking the pass, where the
rock had allowed us to dig the shallowest of graves.
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