Dom Adrian stood up and stretched himself.
"It's time for bed," he said. "Look" (he nodded towards the window), "the devotions are just ending."
From out of the luminous gulf beneath, beyond the tiers of roofs that lay, step-like, between this hostel and the river, rose up that undying song of Lourdes—that strange, haunting old melody of the story of Bernadette, that for a hundred and fifty years had been sung in this place—a ballad-like song, without grace of music or art, which yet has so wonderful an affinity with the old carols of Christendom, which yet is so unforgettable and so affecting. As the three stood side by side looking out of the window they saw the serpent of fire, that rope-coil of tapers that, stretching round the entire Place, humped over the flights of steps and the platforms set amongst the churches, writhes incessantly on itself. But, even as they watched, the serpent grew dim and patchy, and the lights began to go out, as group after group broke away homewards. They had wished their Mother good night, there in that great French town which has so wonderful an aroma of little Nazareth; they had sung their thanksgivings; they had offered their prayers. Now it was time to sleep under Her protection, who was the Mother both of God and man. . . .
"Well, good night," said Monsignor. "We shall meet in London."
"I hope so," said the young monk gravely.
"I am afraid that young man will be in trouble," said Father
Jervis softly, as they came down the steps. "His book, you know."
"Eh?"
"Well, it's best not to talk of it. We shall soon know. He's as brave as a lion."