Brigitta raised her feverish lids and turned her dry eyes about the room. The hale breeze of the late afternoon had subsided to a gentle swelling and falling of the curtain and the shivering of the dim wicks on their stunted boles. A moonbeam peered through the drapery and spread in a lucid shaft upon the cold bare floor, turning it into a shimmering lake of untrod ice. From the shadows the great learned shelves maintained their staid vigil of the little room and the little bed inside it; and it seemed in the soft light that stole back and forth from behind the wavering curtain, that their great heads nodded amongst themselves, knowing, knowing. And in the darkness Brigitta smiled, wondering how she ever could have been afraid, feeling this the perfect time for her last word, her last thought, her last silent breath.