, now at
the living figure of the penitent, and now at the ghastly, daubed
countenance, the painted wounds, and the projected ribs of the image. The
silence was only broken by the wailing of some large birds that circled
sidelong, as if in surprise or alarm, about the summit of the hills.
Presently Olalla rose again, turned towards me, raised her veil, and,
still leaning with one hand on the shaft of the crucifix, looked upon me
with a pale and sorrowful countenance.

'I have laid my hand upon the cross,' she said. 'The Padre says you are
no Christian; but look up for a moment with my eyes, and behold the face
of the Man of Sorrows. We are all such as He was--the inheritors of sin;
we must all bear and expiate a past which was not ours; there is in all
of us--ay, even in me--a sparkle of the divine. Like Him, we must endure
for a little while, until morning returns bringing peace. Suffer me to
pass on upon my way alone; it is thus that I shall be least lonely,
counting for my friend Him who is the friend of all the distressed; it is
thus that I shall be the most happy, having taken my farewell of earthly
happiness, and willingly accepted sorrow for my portion.'

I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though I was no friend to
images, and despised that imitative and grimacing art of which it was a
rude example, some sense of what the thing implied was carried home to my
intelligence. The face looked down upon me with a painful and deadly
contraction; but the rays of a glory encircled it, and reminded me that
the sacrifice was voluntary. It stood there, crowning the rock, as it
still stands on so many highway sides, vainly preaching to passers-by, an
emblem of sad and noble truths; that pleasure is not an end, but an
accident; that pain is the choice of the magnanimous; that it is best to
suffer all things and do well. I turned and went down the mountain in
silence; and when I looked back for the last time before the wood closed
about my path, I saw Olalla still leaning on the crucifix.

THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD.

CHAPTER I. BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK.

They had sent for the doctor from Bourron before six. About eight some
villagers came round for the performance, and were told how matters
stood. It seemed a liberty for a mountebank to fall ill like real
people, and they made off again in dudgeon. By ten Madame Tentaillon was
gravely alarmed, and had sent down the street for Doctor Desprez.