“The priest opened the cup, took between his fingers a wafer white as snow, and approached Atala as he pronounced some mysterious words. That saint’s eyes were upturned in ecstacy. All her sufferings appeared to be suspended; her entire being concentrated itself upon her mouth; her lips parted, and advanced with respect to seek the God concealed beneath the mystic bread. The saintly old man afterwards soaked a piece of cotton in the consecrated oil, and looked for a moment at the dying maiden; when all of a sudden he uttered these imposing words, ‘Go, Christian soul, go; return to your Creator!’ Raising then my downcast head, I cried, looking at the vessel that contained the holy oil, ‘My father, will that remedy restore Atala to life?’ ‘Yes, my son,’ said the old man, falling into my arms, ‘to life eternal!’ Atala had just expired. At this point Chactas was obliged, for the second time, to interrupt the recital of his story. His tears flowed copiously, and the tremor of his voice only permitted him to utter broken words. The blind sachem opened his breast and drew forth Atala’s crucifix. “Here it is!” he cried; “dear token of adversity! O René, O my son! You see it; but I can see it no longer. Tell me whether, after so many years, the gold of it is tarnished? Do you see any traces of my tears upon it? Could you recognize the part which had been touched by the lips of a saint? How is it that Chactas is not yet a Christian? What trivial motives of policy or nationality have kept him in the errors of his fathers? No; I will no longer delay. The earth is crying out to me, ‘When, then, wilt thou go down into the tomb, and for what art thou waiting to embrace a Divine religion?’.... Earth! thou shalt not wait long, for as soon as a priest shall have regenerated by baptism this head whitened with grief, I hope to be re-united to Atala.... But let me finish what remains to be told of my story.” [Illustration: 091] [Illustration: 092] [Illustration: 094] [Illustration: 096] I V. THE FUNERAL [Illustration: 098] “I will not undertake, René, to picture the despair that took possession of my soul when Atala had heaved her last sigh. It would require more warmth than I have left, and that my closed eyes might re-open to the sun, to ask it to tell of the tears they shed in its light. Yes, the moon now shining above our heads will become weary of lighting the solitudes of Kentucky--the river that is now bearing our pirogues will suspend the course of its waters--before my tears cease to flow for Atala! During two days I was insensible to the hermit’s conversation. In trying to calm my grief, the excellent man did not employ the commonplace reasonings of earthly minds. All he said was, ‘My son, it is the will of God;’ and then he pressed me in his arms. I should never have thought there was so much consolation in those few words of a resigned Christian, if I had not myself experienced it.