add, though you may perhaps think it superstitious, surprised me very much too.  But now he regained his self-possession.  He stepped upon a piece of wood that lay in front of the gate.  ’My children’—­he said.  But just then the Cathedral bells, which had gone on tolling, suddenly burst into a wild peal.  I do not know what it sounded like.  It was a clamour of notes all run together, tone upon tone, without time or measure, as though a multitude had seized upon the bells and pulled all the ropes at once.  If it was joy, what strange and terrible joy!  It froze the very blood in our veins.  M. le Cure became quite pale.  He stepped down hurriedly from the piece of wood.  We all made a hurried movement farther off from the gate.

It was now that I perceived the necessity of doing something, of getting this crowd disposed of, especially the women and the children.  I am not ashamed to own that I trembled like the others; and nothing less than the consciousness that all eyes were upon me, and that my scarf of office marked me out among all who stood around, could have kept me from moving with precipitation as they did.  I was enabled, however, to retire at a deliberate pace, and being thus slightly detached from the crowd, I took advantage of the opportunity to address them.  Above all things, it was my duty to prevent a tumult in these unprecedented circumstances.  ‘My friends,’ I said, ’the event which has occurred is beyond explanation for the moment.  The very nature of it is mysterious; the circumstances are such as require the closest investigation.  But take courage.  I pledge myself not to leave this place till the gates are open, and you can return to your homes; in the meantime, however, the women and the children cannot remain here.  Let those who have friends in the villages near, go and ask for shelter; and let all who will, go to my house of La Clairiere.  My mother, my wife! recall to yourselves the position you occupy, and show an example.  Lead our neighbours, I entreat you, to La Clairiere.’

My mother is advanced in years and no longer strong, but she has a great heart.  ‘I will go,’ she said.  ’God bless thee, my son!  There will no harm happen; for if this be true which we are told, thy father is in Semur.’

There then occurred one of those incidents for which calculation never will prepare us.  My mother’s words seemed, as it were to open the flood-gates; my wife came up to me with the light in her face which I had seen when we left our own door.  ’It was our little Marie—­our angel,’ she said.  And then there arose a great cry and clamour of others, both men and women pressing round.  ‘I saw my mother,’ said one, ‘who is dead twenty years come the St. Jean.’  ‘And I my little Rene,’ said another.  ‘And I my Camille, who was killed in Africa.’  And lo, what did they do, but rush towards the gate in a crowd—­that gate from which they had but this moment fled in terror—­beating upon it, and crying out, ’Open to us, open to us,