THE PASSING OF THE HOST.
They found François, Chamilly said, with Josephte kneeling over him
loosening his collar, and tenderly binding her neckerchief over his head
with neatness and gentleness quite enough indeed for any Heaven-selected
Sister of Charity.
Running home breathless, dishevelled and desperate, she had frightened
her brother and grandfather into speechless activity by a terrible
command to harness a horse! Dragging out a light vehicle herself she
speedily completed the arrangements, and whipping the animal pitiless
lashes, dashed out of the presence of her relatives and was soon at the
side of her injured lover, on the moorland road.
It must not tell against Zotique's humanity that he had all this time
such a mastering sense of the necessity of getting on to Miséricorde
that, after barely aiding to place the body on Chamilly's vehicle, he
took possession of the lighter one of Josephte, and sped on for his
destination. The young girl and Haviland, however, conveyed their charge
carefully and safely to the farm-house, had him laid upon her own
prettily-belaced bed, and Haviland insisted--was it not a sacrifice in
him on that critical evening of his election!--in watching with her the
whole night by the bedside of François. As the silent hours were broken
by the occasional sobs of Josephte, the young seigneur often gazed
anxiously into the face of his faithful friend, wiping the bruised
forehead and hoping that he might not die.
Chrysler hurried down into the village in the dusk for medicine. By the
occasional lights of houses he discerned the people, up and out
discussing the exciting topic. Shadowy young men were standing on the
path, straining their eyes to make out who passed by; shadowy fathers of
families sat together at their doorways; half discernible women
conversed from window to window.
A hand-bell rings somewhere in the dark. It slowly swings and rings a
thin, melancholy warning tone, comes nearer, a lantern appears, the
young men, the fathers, the women, the miscellaneous groups, seem, for
half-a-second, to disappear like lights put out, they drop on their
knees so instantly wherever they happen to be. A white-robed figure--an
acolyte--passes; feebly shone upon by a lantern; the "young curé"
follows, bearing the holy wafer,--a ghostly procession; and Chrysler
takes off his hat, for he recognizes it as the passing of the Host.
When they are fairly past, and have disappeared into the gloom, the
shadowy shapes all rise from their knees, and follow the direction with
eyes and ears, and a distinct, ominous murmur passes through the whole
village, for clearly François Le Brun is in _articulo mortis_.