Wide-eyed with terror, the children sprang from their seats, but the Abbe, with hand uplifted, blocked the entrance and commanded them to stay where they were.

“Let no one leave the Cathedral,” he cried.

At this instant Mother Meraut appeared upon the threshold searching for her children, and behind her, coming as fast as his lameness would permit, came the Verger.  The Abbe turned to them.  “I leave these children all in your care,” he said.  “Stay with them until I return.”

And without another word he disappeared in the shadows.

Mother Meraut sat down on one of the chairs she had dusted so carefully, and gathered the frightened children about her as a hen gathers her chickens under her wing.  “There, now,” she said cheerfully, as she wiped their tears upon the corner of her apron, “let’s save our tears until we really know what we have to cry for.  There never yet was misery that couldn’t be made worse by crying, anyway.  The boys will be brave, of course, whatever happens.  And the girls—­surely they will remember that it was a girl who once saved France, and meet misfortune bravely, like our blessed Saint Jeanne d’Arc.”

The Cathedral organ had ceased to fill the great edifice with sweet and inspiring sounds.  Instead, there now was only the muffled tread of marching feet, the rumble of heavy wheels, and the low, ominous beating of drums to break the stillness.

Mother Meraut and the children waited obediently in the chapel, scarcely breathing in their suspense, while Father Varennes went tap-tapping up and down the aisles eagerly watching for the Abbe to reappear.  At last he came.  Mother Meraut, the Verger, and the children all crowded about him, waiting breathlessly for him to speak.

The Abbe was pale, but his voice was firm.  “I have been to the north tower,” he said, “and there I could see for miles in every direction.  Far away to the east and north are massed the hordes of the German Army; they are coming toward Rheims as a thunder-cloud comes rolling over the sky.  Between us and them is our Army, but alas, their faces are turned this way.  They are retreating before the German hosts!  Already French troops are marching through Rheims; already the streets are filled with people who are fleeing from their homes for fear of the Boche.  Unless God sends a miracle, our City is indeed doomed, for a time at least, to wear the German yoke.”

He paused, and the children burst into wild weeping.  Mother Meraut hushed them with comforting words.  “Do not cry, my darlings,” she said.  “God is not dead, and we shall yet live to see justice done and our dear land restored to us.  The soldiers now in the streets are all our own brave defenders.  We shall be able to go in safety, even though in sorrow, to our homes.”

“Come,” said the Abbe, “there is no time to lose.  Our Army will, without doubt, make a stand on the plains west of the City, and it will not be long before the Germans pass through.  You must go to your homes as fast as possible.  Henri, you remain here with your Jean, that you may meet any of the parents who come for their children.  Tell them I have gone with them myself and will deliver each child safely at his own door.”