alone, they began to ring as at Easter or some great festival. At first
softly, almost sadly, like choirs of distant singers, that died away and
were echoed and died again; then taking up another strain, they rang out
into the sky with hurrying notes and clang of joy. The effect upon
myself was wonderful. I no longer felt any fear. The illusion was
complete. I was a child again, serving the mass in my little
surplice--aware that all who loved me were kneeling behind, that the
good God was smiling, and the Cathedral bells ringing out their majestic
Amen.

M. le Curé came down the altar steps when his mass was ended. Together
we put away the vestments and the holy vessels. Our hearts were soft;
the weight was taken from them. As we came out the bells were dying
away in long and low echoes, now faint, now louder, like mingled voices
of gladness and regret. And whereas it had been a pale twilight when we
entered, the clearness of the day had rolled sweetly in, and now it was
fair morning in all the streets. We did not say a word to each other,
but arm and arm took our way to the gates, to open to our neighbours, to
call all our fellow-citizens back to Semur.

If I record here an incident of another kind, it is because of the
sequel that followed. As we passed by the hospital of St. Jean, we heard
distinctly, coming from within, the accents of a feeble yet impatient
voice. The sound revived for a moment the troubles that were stilled
within us--but only for a moment. This was no visionary voice. It
brought a smile to the grave face of M. le Curé and tempted me well nigh
to laughter, so strangely did this sensation of the actual, break and
disperse the visionary atmosphere. We went in without any timidity,
with a conscious relaxation of the great strain upon us. In a little
nook, curtained off from the great ward, lay a sick man upon his bed.