reated by the Church when once her power
had been finally consolidated? How was she to reconcile the
gentleness of the Christian spirit with the dogmatism of the
Christian claim? . . . He recalled one or two hints that Father
Jervis had let drop, and he was conscious of a touch of fear.

He woke up to externals again at the sound of a sentence or
two from the monk.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "What was that?"

"I was saying that the news from Germany is disquieting."

"Why?"

"Oh! nothing definite. They expect trouble. They say that the
Emperor is extraordinarily interested in this girl's case, and
that the Socialists of Berlin are watching him. Berlin is their
last stronghold, you know."

"By the way," interrupted Father Jervis suddenly, "I've enquired
about that man with the curious name--Zola. I find he had quite a
vogue at one time. And now I come to think of it, I believe
Manners mentioned him."

"Zola?" mused the monk. "Yes, I'm nearly sure I've heard of him.
Wasn't he an Elizabethan?"

"No, no. He died at the end of the last century. I find he did
write a little romance about Lourdes. There was even a copy in
the library here. I hadn't time to look at it; but M. Meurot told
me it was one of those odd little attacks on religion that were
popular once. That's all I could find out."

Monsignor compressed his lips. Somewhere out of his abysmal
memory there lurked a consciousness that Zola had once been of
some importance; but he could add nothing to the discussion.

Dom Adrian stood up and stretched himself.

"It's time for bed," he said. "Look" (he nodded towards the
window), "the devotions are just ending."

From out of the luminous gulf beneath, beyond the tiers of roofs
that lay, step-like, between this hostel and the river, rose up
that undying song of Lourdes--that strange, haunting old melody of
the story of Bernadette, that for a hundred and fifty years had
been sung in this place--a ballad-like song, without grace of
music or art, which yet has so wonderful an affinity with the old
carols of Christendom, which yet is so unforgettable and so
affecting. As the three stood side by side looking out of the
window they saw the serpent of fire, that rope-coil of tapers
that, stretching round the entire Place, humped over the flights
of steps and the platforms set amongst the churches, writhes
incessantly on itself. But, even as they watched, the serpent grew
dim and patchy, and the lights began