For days she hung between life and death—with no one to care, save an old colored slave.
Gone the mystic atmosphere of the Orient—the music of cymbals.
A provincial town in France—with the ill-lighted streets—and a steady down-pour of winter rain.
It is Christmas eve
Through the window Katherine has been watching a procession of people hastening to midnight Mass at the Cathedral. Women—dressed in the picturesque garb and coif of Brittany—men and children—What peace is theirs—they know of the Christ Child—of his Mother—and no streams of lowest passion—can cover their souls.
The Cathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic beauty for many centuries—has witnessed many scenes.
That night a soul struggled against the past.
A woman—she was alive—for she walked—moved. But within—she was numb.
She lay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar—before the crèche—