23
The pastor followed Martin to the foot of the mountain. He could go no further; the ground was slippery, dangerous. He retraced his steps with a heavy heart. He was filled with righteous anger. One of his name had dishonored a woman; he must make restitution. He found Julie in a frenzy of fear, calling again and again, “Martin! Martin!” She stood like a white spirit, erect in the storm. The lightning rent the clouds; then the floods came down.
They carried her to the shelter of the chapel. The little building, centuries old, was originally a storehouse for contraband, a refuge for bandits who hid themselves from the gendarmes, among the wine barrels, in the caves beneath. When the Church took it, they brought a beautiful altar from Italy, and artists who painted religious figures on the walls. The wine caves were partitioned into cells, where pious monks prayed and rubbed their rheumatic limbs. Finally, this holy place, a victim of skeptical times, was used as a theatre, where allegorical plays dealing with the political and religious history of the country were performed.
When Julie became conscious of the dimly lit altar, with its faded velvet and gold lace, its figure of the Virgin in painted wood, she stood transfixed; she saw herself on the day of her confirmation, her mother putting around her neck a gold chain and cross, she heard her own voice repeating the Confession of Faith, the organ pealing the Hymn of Praise, the lights, the Presence! With a cry of anguish she fell on her knees.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, have pity!”
Then a deep, tender voice filled the chapel—the voice of Father Cabello.