heard our mother's voice. M. de Bois-Sombre burst into
tears. I have never seen him within the doors of the Cathedral since his
marriage; but he burst into tears. '_Mon Dieu!_ if I were but there!' he
said. We stood and listened, our hearts melting, some falling on their
knees. M. le Cure stood up in the midst of us and began to intone the
psalm: [He has a beautiful voice. It is sympathetic, it goes to the
heart.] 'I was glad when they said to me, Let us go up--' And though
there were few of us who could have supposed themselves capable of
listening to that sentiment a little while before with any sympathy, yet
a vague hope rose up within us while we heard him, while we listened to
the bells. What man is there to whom the bells of his village, the
_carillon_ of his city, is not most dear? It rings for him through all
his life; it is the first sound of home in the distance when he comes
back--the last that follows him like a long farewell when he goes away.
While we listened, we forgot our fears. They were as we were, they were
also our brethren, who rang those bells. We seemed to see them trooping
into our beautiful Cathedral. All! only to see it again, to be within
its shelter, cool and calm as in our mother's arms! It seemed to us that
we should wish for nothing more.

When the sound ceased we looked into each other's faces, and each man
saw that his neighbour was pale. Hope died in us when the sound died
away, vibrating sadly through the air. Some men threw themselves on the
ground in their despair.

And from this time forward many voices were heard, calls and shouts
within the walls, and sometimes a sound like a trumpet, and other
instruments of music. We thought, indeed, that noises as of bands
patrolling along the ramparts were audible as our patrols worked their
way round and round. This was a duty which I never allowed to be
neglected, not because I put very much faith in it, but because it gave
us a sort of employment. There is a story somewhere which I recollect
dimly of an ancient city which its assailants did not touch, but only
marched round and round till the walls fell, and they could enter.
Whether this was a story of classic times or out of our own remote
history, I could not recollect. But I thought of it many times while we
made our way like a procession of ghosts, round and round, straining our
ears to hear what those voices were which sounded above us, in tones
that were familiar, yet so strange. T