iration, a kind of holy folly, that made her seize the
handle.

At that moment the procession passed by, returning from the Grotto, where
Abbe Judaine had pronounced the Benediction. And thereupon Marie,
dragging the little car, placed herself behind the canopy. And, in her
slippers, her head covered with a strip of lace, her bosom heaving, her
face erect, glowing, and superb, she walked on behind the clergy,
dragging after her that car of misery, that rolling coffin, in which she
had endured so much agony. And the crowd which acclaimed her, the frantic
crowd, followed in her wake.

IV. TRIUMPH--DESPAIR

PIERRE also had followed Marie, and like her was behind the canopy,
carried along as it were by the blast of glory which made her drag her
little car along in triumph. Every moment, however, there was so much
tempestuous pushing that the young priest would assuredly have fallen if
a rough hand had not upheld him.

"Don't be alarmed," said a voice; "give me your arm, otherwise you won't
be able to remain on your feet."

Pierre turned round, and was surprised to recognise Father Massias, who
had left Father Fourcade in the pulpit in order to accompany the
procession. An extraordinary fever was sustaining him, throwing him
forward, as solid as a rock, with eyes glowing like live coals, and an
excited face covered with perspiration.

"Take care, then!" he again exclaimed; "give me your arm."

A fresh human wave had almost swept them away. And Pierre now yielded to
the support of this terrible enthusiast, whom he remembered as a
fellow-student at the seminary. What a singular meeting it was, and how
greatly he would have liked to possess that violent faith, that mad
faith, which was making Massias pant, with his throat full of sobs,
whilst he continued giving vent to the ardent entreaty "Lord Jesus, heal
our sick! Lord Jesus, heal our sick!"

There was no cessation of this cry behind the canopy, where there was
always a crier whose duty it was to accord no respite to the slow
clemency of Heaven. At times a thick voice full of anguish, and at others
a shrill and piercing voice, would arise. The Father's, which was an
imperious one, was now at last breaking through sheer emotion.

"Lord Jesus, heal our sick! Lord Jesus, heal our sick!"

The rumour of Marie's wondrous cure, of the miracle whose fame would
speedily fill all Christendom, had already spread from one to the other
end of Lourdes; and from this had