All these Alsatian souls were touched. Three hundred villages of their own country lay below them scattered about amidst the young green of the cornfields. They were sleeping to the sound of the bells. Each was only a rose-red spot. The river, near the horizon, showed like a bar of dusky silver. And beyond rose stretches of country, whose shape was vanishing rapidly in the fogs which still hung above the Rhine. Quite near by, following the slope of the fir plantations, one saw, on the contrary, the smallest details of the forest of Sainte Odile. Several points of dark green jutted out into the valley and mixed with the pale green of the meadows. All was lit up by reflection from a sky full of rays of light. No bright spot attracted the eye. As the bells had united their voices, so the varying shades of the earth had melted into a harmonious unity. The old Alsatian, who kept his place at the side of the priest, stretched his arms, and said:
"I hear the cathedral bells."
He pointed, away in the distance over the flat country, to the celebrated spire of Strasburg, which looked like an amethyst the size of a thumbnail. Now that they could see the rose-red of villages, they imagined they could recognise the sound of the bells.
A voice said: "I recognise the sound of the bells of the Abbey of Marmoutier. How well they chime!"
"I," said another, "I hear the bells of Obernai!"
"And I the bells of Heiligenstein."
The peasant, who came from the neighbourhood of Weissenburg, also said:
"We are too far off to hear what the bells of Saint George of Haguenau are ringing. However, listen, listen; there—now."
The old Alsatian repeated seriously:
"I hear the cathedral!" and he added: "Look up there again!"