A little troop
of men-at-arms was descending that way. A score of them there would be,
and from their lance-heads fluttered scarlet bannerols bearing a white
device which at that distance I could not make out.
The troop had halted, and one upon a great black horse, a man whose armour
shone like the sun itself, was pointing down with his mail-clad hand. Then
they began to move again, and the brightness of their armour, the
fluttering pennons on their lances, stirred me strangely in that fleeting
moment, ere I turned again to the faithful who knelt there waiting for my
words. Dolefully, with hanging head and downcast eyes, I made the dread
announcement.
"My children, there is yet no miracle."
A deathly stillness followed the words. Then came an uproar, a clamour, a
wailing. One bold mountaineer thrust forward to the foremost ranks, though
without rising from his knees.
"Father," he cried, "how can that be? The saint has never failed to bleed
by dawn on Holy Thursday, these five years past."
"Alas!" I groaned, "I do not know. I but tell you what is. All night have
I held vigil. But all has been vain. I will go pray again, and do you,
too, pray."
I dared not tell them of my growing suspicion and fear that the fault was
in myself; that here was a sign of Heaven's displeasure at the impurity of
the guardian of that holy place.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284