near the old bridge,
rang a scale of gay, clear notes, which one might have fancied to be the
chirruping of a bird. And on this side of the town, also, there were
valleys that dipped down between the ridges, and mountains that upreared
their bare sides, a commingling of smiling and of agitated nature, an
endless surging of heights amongst which you noticed those of Visens,
whose slopes the sunlight tinged ornately with soft blue and carmine of a
rippling, moire-like effect.

However, when Marie and Pierre turned their eyes to the west, they were
quite dazzled. The sun rays were here streaming on the large and the
little Beout with their cupolas of unequal height. And on this side the
background was one of gold and purple, a dazzling mountain on whose sides
one could only discern the road which snaked between the trees on its way
to the Calvary above. And here, too, against the sunlit background,
radiant like an aureola, stood out the three superposed churches which at
the voice of Bernadette had sprung from the rock to the glory of the
Blessed Virgin. First of all, down below, came the church of the Rosary,
squat, circular, and half cut out of the rock, at the farther end of an
esplanade on either side of which, like two huge arms, were colossal
gradient ways ascending gently to the Crypt church. Vast labour had been
expended here, a quarryful of stones had been cut and set in position,
there were arches as lofty as naves supporting the gigantic terraced
avenues which had been constructed so that the processions might roll
along in all their pomp, and the little conveyances containing sick
children might ascend without hindrance to the divine presence. Then came
the Crypt, the subterranean church within the rock, with only its low
door visible above the church of the Rosary, whose paved roof, with its
vast promenade, formed a continuation of the terraced inclines. And at
last, from the summit sprang the Basilica, somewhat slender and frail,
recalling some finely chased jewel of the Renascence, and looking very
new and very white--like a prayer, a spotless dove, soaring aloft from
the rocks of Massabielle. The spire, which appeared the more delicate and
slight when compared with the gigantic inclines below, seemed like the
little vertical flame of a taper set in the midst of the vast landscape,
those endless waves of valleys and mountains. By the side, too, of the
dense greenery of the Calvary hill, it looked fragile and