It was night by the loophole when our turnkey threw the door open. I heard the priest and his sacristan joking in the corridor before they entered carrying their sacred parcels. The priest was a doddering old fellow, almost deaf, for the turnkey shouted at his ear, and dim of sight, for he stooped close to look at the dying man, who was beyond confession. "Bring us something for a temporary altar," he commanded the turnkey, who stood candle in hand. The turnkey gave his light to the sacristan, and taking care to lock us in, hurried to obey. I measured the lank, ill-strung assistant, more an overgrown boy than a man of brawn, but expanded around his upper part by the fullness of a short white surplice. He had a face cheerful to silliness. The turnkey brought a board supported by crosspieces; and withdrew, taking his own candle, as soon as the church's tapers were lighted. The sacristan placed the temporary altar beside the foot of the bed, arrayed it, and recited the Confiteor. Then the priest mumbled the Misereatur and Indulgentiam. I had seen extreme unction administered as I had seen many another office of the church in my dim days, with scarcely any attention. Now the words were terribly living. I knew every one before it rolled off the celebrant's lips. Yet under that vivid surface knowledge I carried on as vivid a sequence of thought. The priest elevated the ciborium, repeating, "Ecce Agnus Dei." Then three times--"Domine, non sum dignus." I heard and saw with exquisite keenness, yet I was thinking, "If I do not get out of here he will have to say those words over me." He put the host in the parted mouth of the dying, and spoke-- "Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vetam aeternam." I thought how easy it would be to strip the loose surplice over the sacristan's head. There was a swift clip of the arm around your opponent's neck which I had learned in wrestling, that cut the breath off and dropped him as limp as a cloth. It was an Indian trick. I said to myself it would be impossible to use that trick on the sacristan if he left the cell behind the deaf old priest. I did not want to hurt him. Still, he would have a better chance to live after I had squeezed his neck, than I should have if I did not squeeze it. The priest took out of a silver case a vessel of oil, and a branch. He sprinkled holy water with the branch, upon the bed, the walls, the sacristan and me, repeating, "Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor." While I bent my head to the drops, I knew it was impossible to choke down the sacristan, strip off his surplice, invest myself with it and get out of the cell before priest or turnkey looked back. The sacrilege of such an attack would take all the strength out of me. The priest said the Exaudi nos, exhorted the insensible figure, then recited the Credo and the Litany, the sacristan responding. Silence followed.