On the right, beyond the Place, lay the old town, sloping up now, up even to the medieval castle, which fifty years ago had stood in lonely detachment, but now was faced on hill-top after hill-top, at its own level, by the enormous nursing homes and hostels, which under the direction of the Religious Orders had gradually grown up about this shrine of healing, until now, up to a height of at least five hundred feet, the city of Mary stood on bastion after bastion of the lower slopes of the hills, like some huge auditorium of white stone, facing down towards the river and the Holy Place.
Finally, on the left, immediately to the left of the two priests who stood silently looking, fifty feet below, ran the sweep of the Gave, crossed by innumerable bridges which gave access to the crowding town beyond the water, where once had been nothing but meadowland and the beginning of the great southern plain of France.
There was an air of extraordinary peace and purity about this place, thought Monsignor. Whiteness was the predominating colour—whiteness beneath, and whiteness running up high on the right on to the hills—and above the amazing blue of the southern sky. It was high and glorious summer about them, with a breeze as intoxicating as wine and as fresh as water. From across the Place they could hear the quick flapping of the huge Mary banner that flew above the hall, for there were no wheels or motors here to crush out the acuteness of the ear. The transference of the sick from the hostels above the town was carried out by aeroplanes—great winged decks, with awnings above and at the sides, that slid down as if on invisible lines, to the entrance of the other side of the hall, whence after a daily examination by the doctors they were taken on by hand-litters to the grotto or the bathing-pools.
* * * * *
Monsignor heard a step behind him as he stood and looked, still pathetically bewildered by all that he saw, and still struggling, in spite of himself, with a new upbreak of scepticism; and turning, saw Father Jervis in the act of greeting a young monk in the Benedictine habit.
"I knew we should meet. I heard you were here," the old man was exclaiming. "You remember Monsignor Masterman?"
They shook hands, and Monsignor was not disappointed in his friend's tact.
"Father Adrian absolutely haunts Lourdes nowadays," went on Father Jervis. "I wonder his superiors allow him. And how's the book getting on?"
The monk smiled. He was an exceedingly pleasant person to look upon, with a thin, refined face and large, startlingly blue eyes. He shook his head as he smiled.
"I'm getting frightened," he said. "I cannot see with the theologians in all points. Well, the least said, the soonest mended."