h plain, with the road banked on either
side to avert the spring torrents from the Pyrenees; now again mounting
and descending a sudden shoulder of hill. A few minutes ago we had
passed into Tarbes, the cathedral city of the diocese in which Lourdes
lies; and there, owing to a little accident, we had been obliged to
halt, while the wheels of the car were lifted, with incredible
ingenuity, from the deep gutter into which the chauffeur had, with the
best intentions, steered them. It was here, in the black eyes, the
dominant profiles, the bright colours, the absorbed childish interest of
the crowd, in their comments, their laughter, their seriousness, and
their accent, that the South showed itself almost unmixed. It was
market-day in Tarbes; and when once more we were on our way, we still
went slowly; passing, almost all the way into Lourdes itself, a
long-drawn procession--carts and foot passengers, oxen, horses, dogs,
and children--drawing nearer every minute toward that ring of solemn
blue hills that barred the view to Spain.

It is difficult to describe with what sensations I came to Lourdes. As a
Christian man, I did not dare to deny that miracles happened; as a
reasonably humble man, I did not dare to deny that they happened at
Lourdes; yet, I suppose, my attitude even up to now had been that of a
reverent agnostic--the attitude, in fact, of a majority of Christians on
this particular point--Christians, that is, who resemble the Apostle
Thomas in his less agreeable aspect. I had heard and read a good deal
about psychology, about the effect of mind on matter and of nerves on
tissue; I had reflected upon the infection of an ardent crowd; I had
read Zola's dishonest book;[1] and these things, coupled with the
extreme difficulty which the imagination finds in realizing what it has
never experienced--since, after all, miracles are confessedly
miraculous, and therefore unusual--the effect of all this was to render
my mental state a singularly detached one. I believed? Yes, I suppose
so; but it was a halting act of faith pure and simple; it was not yet
either sight or real conviction.

The cross, then, was the first glimpse of Lourdes' presence; and ten
minutes later we were in the town itself.

Lourdes is not beautiful, though it must once have been. It was once a
little Franco-Spanish town, set in the lap of the hills, with a swift,
broad, shallow stream, the Gave, flowing beneath it. It is now
cosmopolitan, and theref