The casket had been lifted from his knees, and a priest held it beside him, so that his ringed hand might lie upon it. The physician, bending on the other side, offered to loosen the robe drawn with oppressive tightness across his breast.
The Bishop snarled an inarticulate dissent, and strove to lift his free hand.
"Not any button!" he murmured, thickly. "I abate no atom of my dignity. I will be dying with my robe seemingly disposed."
His eyes mounted above the pain to look at Turlogh.
"In my ordo," he gasped out, laboriously "all directions are there. You will observe the least of them!"
The Lord of Dunbeekin bowed, and made to take the book from the hand of the priest who held it. The Bishop interposed with a hoarse call, and strove to shake his head. Those closest round about gazed wonderingly into his troubled frowning face to catch a hint of his meaning. The chaplain, bearing the viaticum, stooped forward to listen for some whispered words.
"Open the book!" the slow, difficult command came. "Search the rubric. Read aloud to me in what manner a Bishop receives the viaticum!"
The priest with the book fumbled at its pages. He turned pale as he did so, and cast a confused, appealing glance at the chaplain. He went on, moving the leaves aimlessly, with a hanging lip.
"Read, read!" insisted the Bishop in stern monition.
The priest had the passage before him. He was a young man, soft-faced and gentle of mien. The tears started in his eyes, and his mouth quivered as he remained speechless.
The Bishop sought to rise in his chair. His lifeless face drew itself into lines of wrath; his eyes gleamed, and his voice gurgled turbulently in his throat for a moment, then burst forth in loud, unnatural tones.
