my old mother lies between us."

"Tell your beads!" commanded the priest, sternly--"tell your beads, all
of you. All ye that have not your beads, say the 'Hail Mary!' one
hundred times."

Immediately a rapid, monotonous muttering arose from every lonely
chamber of that desecrated ground. All obeyed but the baby, who still
moaned with the hopeless grief of deserted children. The living priest
knew that they would talk no more that night, and went into the church
to pray till dawn. He was sick with horror and terror, but not for
himself. When the sky was pink and the air full of the sweet scents of
morning, and a piercing scream tore a rent in the early silences, he
hastened out and sprinkled his graves with a double allowance of
holy-water. The train rattled by with two short derisive shrieks, and
before the earth had ceased to tremble the priest laid his ear to the
ground. Alas, they were still awake!

"The fiend is on the wing again," said Jean-Marie; "but as he passed I
felt as if the finger of God touched my brow. It can do us no harm."

"I, too, felt that heavenly caress!" exclaimed the old priest. "And I!"
"And I!" "And I!" came from every grave but the baby's.

The priest of earth, deeply thankful that his simple device had
comforted them, went rapidly down the road to the castle. He forgot that
he had not broken his fast nor slept. The count was one of the directors
of the railroad, and to him he would make a final appeal.

It was early, but no one slept at Croisac. The young countess was dead.
A great bishop had arrived in the night and administered extreme
unction. The priest hopefully asked if he might venture into the
presence of the bishop. After a long wait in the kitchen, he was told
that he could speak with _Monsieur l'Eveque_. He followed the servant up
the wide spiral stair of the tower, and from its twenty-eighth step
entered a room hung with purple cloth stamped with golden fleurs-de-lis.
The bishop lay six feet above the floor on one of the splendid carved
cabinet beds that are built against the walls in Brittany. Heavy
curtains shaded his cold white face. The priest, who was small and
bowed, felt immeasurably below that august presence, and sought for
words.

"What is it, my son?" asked the bishop, in his cold weary voice. "Is the
matter so pressing? I am very tired."

Brokenly, nervously, the priest told his story, and as he strove to
convey the tragedy of the tormented dead he not only f