"The angels who carried Mary into Egypt will bring her to you."
There was a great rustle of wings, and a smile shone on the face of
the granite Christ.
Jacques was praying, but his prayer was unlike any that he had ever
said before. It was a chant of ecstasy, which rose to his lips
in words so beautiful that he experienced a sense of ineffable
happiness in listening to himself.
Far away, on the brink of the horizon, pure and clear as crystal,
he saw Marguerite borne toward him on billows of white. She was
no longer pale, worn, and sad. She was radiant, and glowed with
that internal light which is the beauty of the soul, and is alone
imperishable. The angels laid her at the foot of the crucifix, and
she prostrated herself and adored. When she raised her head there
were two souls beside her, and their essences blended in one kiss, in
one burst of gratitude. The granite Christ wept.