So
hardly had the priest crossed the threshold than she flung
herself at his feet, and implored him to administer Extreme
Unction. The father, who seems to have belonged to the
ordinary type of country-bred ecclesiastic so common abroad,
and who probably in the whole course of his life had never
before availed himself of so startling a method of enrolling
a new convert, demurred. There had been no profession of
faith, he urged; there could be none now, for--and he hardly
liked to pronounce the cruel words--Burton was dead. But
Isabel would listen to no arguments, would take no refusal;
she remained weeping and wailing on the floor, until at last,
to terminate a disagreeable scene, which most likely would
have ended in hysterics he consented to perform the rite.
Rome took formal possession of Richard Burton's corpse, and
pretended, moreover, with insufferable insolence, to take
under her protection his soul. From that moment an
inquisitive mob never ceased to disturb the solemn chamber.
Other priests went in and out at will, children from a
neighbouring orphanage sang hymns and giggled alternately,
pious old women recited their rosaries, gloated over the
dead, and splashed the bed with holy water; the widow, who
had regained her composure, directing the innumerable
ceremonies. . . . After the necessary interval had elapsed,
Burton's funeral took place in the largest church in Trieste,
and was made the excuse for an ecclesiastical triumph of a
faith he had always loathed.
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