“Oh!” I breathed. I could feel my lips go white.
“The doctor is with him now, and a trained nurse. I left them to search for you. I knew I should find you—somewhere.”
I rose quickly and caught my companion's arm.
“Come! We must go to him.”
“No! You cannot see him until tomorrow. This is the night of the crisis.”
“Please!” I begged.
“No! You must wait here. I will send you word.” Then she left me.
Hour after hour I waited at the hospice, knowing that Seraphine would keep her promise and send me some message. At about nine o'clock a little boy came with a note saying that I must come at once. Christopher was worse.
As we hurried through the square, the whole place was ablaze with lights, the church itself outlined fantastically in electric fires, while great crowds of chanting pilgrims moved in slow procession, each man or woman carrying a torch or lantern or shaded candle and all lifting their voices in that everlasting cry of faith and worship:
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria!
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria!