in the pilgrimage. I even know my patient. He was
introduced to me at the railway station. He is suffering from
tuberculosis, it appears, and seemed to me very low, very low."

A fresh interval of silence ensued. "Well," said M. Sabathier at last,
"may the Blessed Virgin save him also, she who can do everything. I shall
be so happy; she will have loaded me with favours."

Then the three men, isolating themselves from the others, went on
conversing together, at first on medical subjects, and at last diverging
into a discussion on romanesque architecture, _a propos_ of a steeple
which they had perceived on a hillside, and which every pilgrim had
saluted with a sign of the cross. Swayed once more by the habits of
cultivated intellect, the young priest and his two companions forgot
themselves together in the midst of their fellow-passengers, all those
poor, suffering, simple-minded folk, whom wretchedness stupefied. Another
hour went by, two more canticles had just been sung, and the stations of
Toury and Les Aubrais had been left behind, when, at Beaugency, they at
last ceased their chat, on hearing Sister Hyacinthe clap her hands and
intonate in her fresh, sonorous voice:

"_Parce, Domine, parce populo tuo_."

And then the chant went on; all voices became mingled in that
ever-surging wave of prayer which stilled pain, excited hope, and little
by little penetrated the entire being, harassed by the haunting thought
of the grace and cure which one and all were going to seek so far away.

However, as Pierre sat down again, he saw that Marie was very pale, and
had her eyes closed. By the painful contraction of her features he could
tell that she was not asleep. "Are you in great suffering?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, I suffer dreadfully. I shall never last to the end. It is this
incessant jolting."

She moaned, raised her eyelids, and, half-fainting, remained in a sitting
posture, her eyes turned on the other sufferers. In the adjoining
compartment, La Grivotte, hitherto stretched out, scarce breathing, like
a corpse, had just raised herself up in front of M. Sabathier. She was a
tall, slip-shod, singular-looking creature of over thirty, with a round,
ravaged face, which her frizzy hair and flaming eyes rendered almost
pretty. She had reached the third stage of phthisis.

"Eh, mademoiselle," she said, addressing herself in a hoarse, indistinct
voice to Marie, "how nice it would be if we could only doze off a little.
But it