quare.

"Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us!" cried the priest in his
thundering voice.

And the sick and the pilgrims repeated louder and louder: "Mary,
conceived without sin, pray for us!"

Then the flow of the litany set in, and continued with increasing speed:

"Most pure Mother, most chaste Mother, thy children are at thy feet!"

"Most pure Mother, most chaste Mother, thy children are at thy feet!"

"Queen of the Angels, say but a word, and our sick shall be healed!"

"Queen of the Angels, say but a word, and our sick shall be healed!"

In the second row of sufferers, near the pulpit, was M. Sabathier, who
had asked to be brought there early, wishing to choose his place like an
old _habitue_ who knew the cosy corners. Moreover, it seemed to him that
it was of paramount importance that he should be as near as possible,
under the very eyes of the Virgin, as though she required to see her
faithful in order not to forget them. However, for the seven years that
he had been coming there he had nursed this one hope of being some day
noticed by her, of touching her, and of obtaining his cure, if not by
selection, at least by seniority. This merely needed patience on his part
without the firmness of his faith being in the least shaken by his way of
thinking. Only, like a poor, resigned man just a little weary of being
always put off, he sometimes allowed himself diversions. For instance, he
had obtained permission to keep his wife near him, seated on a
camp-stool, and he liked to talk to her, and acquaint her with his
reflections.

"Raise me a little, my dear," said he. "I am slipping. I am very
uncomfortable."

Attired in trousers and a coarse woollen jacket, he was sitting upon his
mattress, with his back leaning against a tilted chair.

"Are you better?" asked his wife, when she had raised him.

"Yes, yes," he answered; and then began to take an interest in Brother
Isidore, whom they had succeeded in bringing in spite of everything, and
who was lying upon a neighbouring mattress, with a sheet drawn up to his
chin, and nothing protruding but his wasted hands, which lay clasped upon
the blanket.

"Ah! the poor man," said M. Sabathier. "It's very imprudent, but the
Blessed Virgin is so powerful when she chooses!"

He took up his chaplet again, but once more broke off from his devotions
on perceiving Madame Maze, who had just glided into the reserved
space--so slender and unobtrusive that she had doubtl