They greeted silently.

He saw the white shell of the life that had flown; he took his mother's hand and kissed it, and knelt, clasping it.
Fear of disturbing his prayer kept Aminta seated.

Death was a stranger to him.

The still warm, half-cold, nerveless hand smote the fact of things as they were through the prayer for things as we would have them.

The vitality of his prayer was the sole light he had.