The recluse knew her well; and as the unfortunate creature, panting with the effort of the climb, sank upon a little bench to rest her feet, he told her story briefly to the visitors.

She was ill, very, very ill.  With no faith in doctors, who, according to her, “treated her with nothing but words”; she believed that the Virgin del Lluch would ultimately cure her.  And, though at home she could scarcely move from her chair and was always being scolded by her husband for neglecting the housework, every week she would climb the steep mountain-side, barefoot, her shoes in her hand.

The hermit approached the sick woman, accepting a copper coin she offered.  A few couplets to the Virgin, as usual, he supposed!

“Visanteta, a few gochos!” shouted the rustic, going to the door.  And his daughter came into the chapel—­a dirty, dark-skinned creature with African eyes, who might just have escaped from a gipsy band.

She took a seat upon a bench, turning her back upon the Virgin with the bored ill-humored expression of a person compelled to do a dull task day after day; and in a hoarse, harsh, almost frantic voice, which echoed deafeningly in that small enclosure, she began a drawling chant that rehearsed the story of the statue and the portentous miracles it had wrought.

The sick woman, kneeling before the altar without releasing her hold upon her shoes, the heels of her feet, which were bruised and bleeding from the stones, showing from under her skirts, repeated a refrain at the end of each stanza, imploring the protection of the Virgin.  Her voice had a weak and hollow sound, like the wail of a child.  Her sunken eyes, misty with tears, were fixed upon the Virgin with a dolorous expression of supplication.  Her words came more tremulous and more distant at each couplet.

The beautiful stranger was plainly affected at the pitiful sight.  Her maid had knelt and was following the sing-song rhythm of the chant, with prayers in a language that Rafael recognized at last.  It was Italian.

“What a great thing faith is!” the lady murmured with a sigh.

“Yes, senora; a beautiful thing!”

Rafael tried to think of something “brilliant” on the grandeur of faith, from Saint Thomas, or one of the other “sound” authors he had studied.  But he ransacked his memory in vain.  Nothing!  That charming woman had filled his mind with thoughts far other than quotations from the Fathers!

The couplets to the Virgin came to an end.  With the last stanza the wild singer disappeared; and the sick woman, after several abortive efforts, rose painfully to her feet.  The recluse approached her with the solicitude of a shopkeeper concerned for the quality of his wares.  Were things going any better?  Were the visits to the Virgin doing good?...  The unfortunate woman did not dare to answer, for fear of offending the miraculous Lady.  She did not know!...  Yes ... she really must be a little