l of the ailing pilgrims. All
that they could as yet see, far away in the depths of the black country,
was the lantern in front of the engine, looking like a red star which
grew larger and larger. Strident whistles pierced the night, then
suddenly ceased, and you only heard the panting of the steam and the dull
roar of the wheels gradually slackening their speed. Then the canticle
became distinctly audible, the song of Bernadette with the ever-recurring
"Aves" of its refrain, which the whole train was chanting in chorus. And
at last this train of suffering and faith, this moaning, singing train,
thus making its entry into Lourdes, drew up in the station.

The carriage doors were at once opened, the whole throng of healthy
pilgrims, and of ailing ones able to walk, alighted, and streamed over
the platform. The few gas lamps cast but a feeble light on the crowd of
poverty-stricken beings clad in faded garments, and encumbered with all
sorts of parcels, baskets, valises, and boxes. And amidst all the
jostling of this scared flock, which did not know in which direction to
turn to find its way out of the station, loud exclamations were heard,
the shouts of people calling relatives whom they had lost, mingled with
the embraces of others whom relatives or friends had come to meet. One
woman declared with beatifical satisfaction, "I have slept well." A
priest went off carrying his travelling-bag, after wishing a crippled
lady "good luck!" Most of them had the bewildered, weary, yet joyous
appearance of people whom an excursion train sets down at some unknown
station. And such became the scramble and the confusion in the darkness,
that they did not hear the railway _employes_ who grew quite hoarse
through shouting, "This way! this way!" in their eagerness to clear the
platform as soon as possible.

Sister Hyacinthe had nimbly alighted from her compartment, leaving the
dead man in the charge of Sister Claire des Anges; and, losing her head
somewhat, she ran off to the cantine van in the idea that Ferrand would
be able to help her. Fortunately she found Father Fourcade in front of
the van and acquainted him with the fatality in a low voice. Repressing a
gesture of annoyance, he thereupon called Baron Suire, who was passing,
and began whispering in his ear. The muttering lasted for a few seconds,
and then the Baron rushed off, and clove his way through the crowd with
two bearers carrying a covered litter. In this the man was remove