"This is wrong," he said dully; "wrong."
Madame Picard's fingers gripped his arm. Except for the spasms of the talons which were her fingers she seemed calm.
"No, m'sieu'," she said. "You have them now. Atonement—atonement, m'sieu'. You have many times spoken of atonement. But they do not understand what they cannot see. They are behind you—you cannot leave them now."
"But—the child?"
"The child shall show them—a child shall lead them, m'sieu'. They must see a théâtre of atonement—then they will believe. Come."
Protesting, he was swept into the crowd and forward—forward to the van of it, into the Grand Rue. Always the thunderous rumble of the mob continued; high shrieks flickered like lightning above it; the name of Christ dinned into his ears from foul throats. On one side of him the cripple appeared; on the other strode the mamaloi—the child, screaming with fear, on her hip. A hymn-tune stirred under the tumult—rose above it.
"Le fils de Dieu se va Pen guerre Son drapeau rouge comme sang."
Wild quavers adorned the tune obscenely; the mob marched to it, falling into step. Torches came, flaming high at the edges of the crowd, flaming wan and lurid on hundreds of black faces.
"Il va pour gagner sa couronne Qui est-ce que suit dans son train?"
"A crusade!" Simpson suddenly shouted. "It is a crusade!"