Ah! might
she be saved, at the cost even of his own damnation! But she was too ill;
science lied like faith; he could not believe that this child, whose
limbs had been dead for so many years, would indeed return to life. And,
in the bewildered doubt into which he again relapsed, his bleeding heart
clamoured yet more loudly, ever and ever repeating with the delirious
crowd: "Lord, son of David, heal our sick!--Lord, son of David, heal our
sick!"
At that moment a tumult arose agitating one and all. People shuddered,
faces were turned and raised. It was the cross of the four-o'clock
procession, a little behind time that day, appearing from beneath one of
the arches of the monumental gradient way. There was such applause and
such violent, instinctive pushing that Berthaud, waving his arms,
commanded the bearers to thrust the crowd back by pulling strongly on the
cords. Overpowered for a moment, the bearers had to throw themselves
backward with sore hands; however, they ended by somewhat enlarging the
reserved path, along which the procession was then able to slowly wend
its way. At the head came a superb beadle, all blue and gold, followed by
the processional cross, a tall cross shining like a star. Then followed
the delegations of the different pilgrimages with their banners,
standards of velvet and satin, embroidered with metal and bright silk,
adorned with painted figures, and bearing the names of towns: Versailles,
Rheims, Orleans, Poitiers, and Toulouse.
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