rs had
died during the long vigil, falling asleep, as it were, in the midst of
their ecstasy.

"You will take the Sacrament at the Grotto tomorrow morning, before you
are brought back here, won't you, my child?" resumed Sister Hyacinthe.

However, nine o'clock at last struck, and, Pierre not arriving, the girl
wondered whether he, usually so punctual, could have forgotten her? The
others were now talking to her of the night procession, which she would
see from beginning to end if she only started at once. The ceremonies
concluded with a procession every night, but the Sunday one was always
the finest, and that evening, it was said, would be remarkably splendid,
such, indeed, as was seldom seen. Nearly thirty thousand pilgrims would
take part in it, each carrying a lighted taper: the nocturnal marvels of
the sky would be revealed; the stars would descend upon earth. At this
thought the sufferers began to bewail their fate; what a wretched lot was
theirs, to be tied to their beds, unable to see any of those wonders.

At last Madame de Jonquiere approached Marie's bed. "My dear girl," said
she, "here is your father with Monsieur l'Abbe."

Radiant with delight, the girl at once forgot her weary waiting. "Oh!
pray let us make haste, Pierre," she exclaimed; "pray let us make haste!"

They carried her down the stairs, and the young priest harnessed himself
to the little car, which gently rolled along, under the star-studded
heavens, whilst M. de Guersaint walked beside it. The night was moonless,
but extremely beautiful; the vault above looked like deep blue velvet,
spangled with diamonds, and the atmosphere was exquisitely mild and pure,
fragrant with the perfumes from the mountains. Many pilgrims were
hurrying along the street, all bending their steps towards the Grotto,
but they formed a discreet, pensive crowd, with naught of the fair-field,
lounging character of the daytime throng. And, as soon as the Plateau de
la Merlasse was reached, the darkness spread out, you entered into a
great lake of shadows formed by the stretching lawns and lofty trees, and
saw nothing rising on high save the black, tapering spire of the
Basilica.

Pierre grew rather anxious on finding that the crowd became more and more
compact as he advanced. Already on reaching the Place du Rosaire it was
difficult to take another forward step. "There is no hope of getting to
the Grotto yet awhile," he said. "The best course would be to turn into
one