"Great God—do you ask!" the Seigneur said indignantly. "And he deserves her," he muttered under his breath.
Charley opened his eyes. "Is she safe?" he asked, starting up.
"Unscathed, my son," the Cure said.
Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a hart for the water-brooks?
"I am very sorry for you, Monsieur," said Charley.
"It is God's will," was the reply, in a choking voice. "It will be years before we have another church—many, many years."
The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming debris.
The people groaned.
"It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again," said Filion
Lacasse.
"We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play," said the Notary.
"That could go towards it."