There is a singular variableness in the mind of a crowd, susceptible alike to good or evil impressions.  At the heart-piercing cry of Gabriel, all these people, who, a moment before, had demanded, with loud uproar, the massacre of this man, felt touched with a sudden pity.  The words:  “He is dead!” circulated in low whispers through the crowd accompanied by a slight shudder, whilst Gabriel raised with one hand the victim’s heavy head, and with the other sought to feel if the pulse still beat beneath the ice-cold skin.

“Mr. Curate,” said the quarryman, bending towards Gabriel, “is there really no hope?”

The answer was waited for with anxiety, in the midst of deep silence.  The people hardly ventured to exchange a few words in whispers.

“Blessed be God!” exclaimed Gabriel, suddenly.  “His heart beats.”

“His heart beats,” repeated the quarryman, turning his head towards the crowd, to inform them of the good news.

“Oh! his heart beats!” repeated the others, in whispers.

“There is hope.  We may yet save him,” added Gabriel with an expression of indescribable happiness.

“We may yet save him,” repeated the quarryman, mechanically.

“We may yet save him,” muttered the crowd.

“Quick, quick,” resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman; “help me, brother.  Let us carry him to a neighboring house, where he can have immediate aid.”

The quarryman obeyed with readiness.  Whilst the missionary lifted Father d’Aigrigny by holding him under the arms, the quarryman took the legs of the almost inanimate body.  Together, they carried him outside of the choir.  At sight of the formidable quarryman, aiding the young priest to render assistance to the man whom he had just before pursued with menaces of death, the multitude felt a sudden thrill of compassion.  Yielding to the powerful influence of the words and example of Gabriel, they felt themselves deeply moved, and each became anxious to offer services.

“Mr. Curate, he would perhaps be better on a chair, that one could carry upright,” said Ciboule.

“Shall I go and fetch a stretcher from the hospital?” asked another.

“Mr. Curate, let me take your place; the body is too heavy for you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said a powerful man, approaching the missionary respectfully; “I can carry him alone.”

“Shall I run and fetch a coach, Mr. Curate?” said a young vagabond, taking off his red cap.

“Right,” said the quarryman; “run away, my buck!”

“But first, ask Mr. Curate if you are to go for a coach,” said Ciboule, stopping the impatient messenger.

“True,” added one of the bystanders; “we are here in a church, and Mr. Curate has the command.  He is at home.”

“Yes, yes; go at once, my child,” said Gabriel to the obliging young vagabond.

Whilst the latter was making his way through the crowd, a voice said:  “I’ve a little wicker-bottle of brandy; will that be of any use?”