In a trice priests and laymen swarmed to the belfry, and indignantly demanded of the sacristan what he meant.

“To enlighten you,” he responded.  “To teach you to give honour where honour is due.  To unmask those canonised impostors.”

And he called their attention to the fact that the clappers of the bells of Eulogius and Eucherius were so fastened up that they could not emit a sound, while that of Euschemon vibrated freely.

“Ye see,” he continued, “that these sound not at all, yet is the tempest stayed.  Is it not thence manifest that the virtue resides solely in the bell of the blessed Euschemon?”

The argument seemed conclusive to the majority, but those of the clergy who ministered at the altars of Eulogius and Eucherius stoutly resisted, maintaining that no just decision could be arrived at until Euschemon’s bell was subjected to the same treatment as the others.  Their view eventually prevailed, to the great dismay of Euschemon, who, although firmly convinced of the virtue of his own bell, did not in his heart disbelieve in the bells of his brethren.  Imagine his relief and amazed joy when, upon his bell being silenced, the storm, for the first time in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, broke with full fury over Epinal, and, for all the frantic pealing of the other two bells, raged with unspeakable fierceness until his own was brought into requisition, when, as if by enchantment, the rain ceased, the thunder-clouds dispersed, and the sun broke out gloriously from the blue sky.

“Carry him in procession!” shouted the crowd.

“Amen, brethren; here I am,” rejoined Euschemon, stepping briskly into the midst of the troop.

“And why in the name of Zernebock should we carry you?” demanded some, while others ran off to lug forth the image, the object of their devotion.

“Why, verily,” Euschemon began, and stopped short.  How indeed was he to prove to them that he was Euschemon?  His personal resemblance to his effigy, the work of a sculptor of the idealistic school, was in no respect remarkable; and he felt, alas! that he could no more work a miracle than you or I. In the sight of the multitude he was only an elderly sexton with a cast in his eye, with nothing but his office to keep him out of the workhouse.  A further and more awkward question arose, how on earth was he to get back to Paradise?  The ordinary method was not available, for he had already been dead for several centuries; and no other presented itself to his imagination.

Muttering apologies, and glad to be overlooked, Euschemon shrank into a corner, but slightly comforted by the honours his image was receiving at the hands of the good people of Epinal.  As time wore on he became pensive and restless, and nothing pleased him so well as to ascend to the belfry on moonlight nights, scribbling disparagement on the bells of Eulogius and Eucherius, which had ceased to be rung, and patting and caressing his own, which now did duty for all three.  With alarm he noticed one night an incipient crack, which threatened to become a serious flaw.