erre's reply, he at once bent down to open one
of the iron plates protecting the spring, mentioning that it was thus
closed up in order to prevent freethinkers from throwing poison into it.
For a moment this extraordinary idea quite amazed the priest; but he
ended by attributing it entirely to the Baron, who was, indeed, very
childish. The latter, meantime, was vainly struggling with the padlock,
which opened by a combination of letters, and refused to yield to his
endeavours. "It is singular," he muttered; "the word is _Rome_, and I am
positive that it hasn't been changed. The damp destroys everything. Every
two years or so we are obliged to replace those crutches up there,
otherwise they would all rot away. Be good enough to bring me a taper."

By the light of the candle which Pierre then took from one of the
holders, he at last succeeded in unfastening the brass padlock, which was
covered with _vert-de-gris_. Then, the plate having been raised, the
spring appeared to view. Upon a bed of muddy gravel, in a fissure of the
rock, there was a limpid stream, quite tranquil, but seemingly spreading
over a rather large surface. The Baron explained that it had been
necessary to conduct it to the fountains through pipes coated with
cement; and he even admitted that, behind the piscinas, a large cistern
had been dug in which the water was collected during the night, as
otherwise the small output of the source would not suffice for the daily
requirements.

"Will you taste it?" he suddenly asked. "It is much better here, fresh
from the earth."

Pierre did not answer; he was gazing at that tranquil, innocent water,
which assumed a moire-like golden sheen in the dancing light of the
taper. The falling drops of wax now and again ruffled its surface. And,
as he gazed at it, the young priest pondered upon all the mystery it
brought with it from the distant mountain slopes.

"Come, drink some!" said the Baron, who had already dipped and filled a
glass which was kept there handy. The priest had no choice but to empty
it; it was good pure, water, fresh and transparent, like that which flows
from all the lofty uplands of the Pyrenees.

After refastening the padlock, they both returned to the bench. Now and
again Pierre could still hear the spring flowing behind him, with a music
resembling the gentle warble of some unseen bird. And now the Baron again
raised his voice, giving him the history of the Grotto at all times and
seasons, in