te, saying: "M'sieu' le Cure, I will
go."

A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then
went round an almost incredulous whisper: "Parpon the dwarf!"

Parpon's deep eyes were fixed on the Cure, his hunched body leaning on
the railing in front of him, his long, strong arms stretched out as
if he were begging for some good thing. The murmur among the people
increased, but the Cure raised his hand to command silence, and his eyes
gazed steadily at the dwarf. It might seem that he was noting the huge
head, the shaggy hair, the overhanging brows, the weird face of this
distortion of a thing made in God's own image. But he was thinking
instead of how the angel and the devil may live side by side in a man,
and neither be entirely driven out--and the angel conquer in great times
and seasons.

He beckoned to Parpon to come over, and the dwarf trotted with a
sidelong motion to the chancel steps. Every face in the congregation was
eager, and some were mystified, even anxious. They all knew the singular
power of the little man--his knowledge, his deep wit, his judgment,
his occasional fierceness, his infrequent malice; but he was kind to
children and the sick, and the Cure and the Avocat and their little
coterie respected him. Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when
he had sung in the Mass, the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette
the miller, for whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut
by the Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most
wonderful power and sweetness had been heard singing; but this was only
rumour. Yet when the body of the miller's wife lay in the church, he had
sung so that men and women wept and held each other's hands for joy. He
had never sung since, however; his voice of silver was locked away in
the cabinet of secret purposes which every man has somewhere in his own
soul.

"What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?" asked the Cure.

The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Cure
intended Parpon to go.

Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of
the Cure, drawing him down to whisper in his ear.

A flush and then a peculiar soft light passed over the Cure's face, and
he raised his hand over Parpon's head in benediction and said: "Go, my
son, and the blessing of God and of His dear Son be with you."

Then suddenly he turned to the altar, and, raising his hands, he tried
to speak, but only