upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed
and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three
crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman
populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud
passed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous
sympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of some
overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even the
stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the sacred
tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they
shifted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother.

"Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!" said a weeping woman aloud.

A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the
World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--a
strange hush as of a prelude to some great event.

"It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," said the
Figure.

The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a
wind quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks
away--neither having come nor gone, but only lived and died.

Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at
the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene.

Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and
speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days
Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one
hand upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the
appeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now,
and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the
multitude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel.
Awe and wonder moved the people.

Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from
Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him.

When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the
Magdalene rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she
turned, and he saw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face;
then his heart seemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the
farthest recesses of his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a
startled exclamation.

Rosalie began to speak. "This is the day of which the hours shall never
cease--in it there shall be no