a shroud will cover that face which God made both to shame and to edify this world."
Paphnutius followed her into a courtyard flooded with the morning light. On the edge of the brick roofs, the pigeons formed a string of pearls. On a bed, in the shade of the fig tree, Thaïs lay quite white, her arms crossed. By her side stood veiled women, reciting the prayers for the dying.
"Have mercy, upon me, God, according to Thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions."
He called her —
"Thaïs!"
She raised her eyelids, and turned the whites of her eyes in the direction of the voice.
Albina made a sign to the veiled women to retire a few paces.
"Thaïs!" repeated the monk.
She raised her head; a light breath came from her pale lips.
"Is it thou, my father? . . . Dost thou remember the water of the spring, and the dates that we picked? . . . That day, my father, love was born in my heart — the love of life eternal."
She was silent, and her head fell back.
Death was upon her, and the sweat of the last agony bedewed her forehead. A pigeon broke the still silence with its plaintive cooing. Then the
