Now she was in the square in front of the cathedral, but a mighty mob of many thousands stood between her and the high, gray portals which, wide open as they were, could not hold the human stream flowing into them. The beadles in their red garments, with long staffs in their hands, stood like fiery cherubim at the entrance to the paradise, and ordered the crowd, throwing them into line. The mass moved slowly forward. Margret stood in the last rows, crowded and pushed from all sides. Finally the human wall in front of her gave way in one spot and she slipped through, not heeding the elbows and shoulders stretched out to hold her back. She was almost at the portals, but now there was no further movement, the mob stood motionless. There was no going backward or forward, the beadles held their staffs before the entrance. There was not room for another soul to get in at the door.
The ringing of the bells ceased with a long-drawn sigh; rich organ notes boomed through the air. The incense wafted upward. “O vestis inconsutilis.” With a singing as of angels’ voices, the sounds wafted out from the church into the sun-bathed air, solemnly soaring high over the heads of the massed community. The heads bowed as a ripe field of grain bows under the breath of the wind; all sank to their knees and beat their hands to their breasts. “O vestis inconsutilis” came as in one breath from a thousand lips. Then there was silence, as all listened. Within the cathedral the singing had stopped, the voice of the priest was heard. Then there was silence again. “Now they are showing the Sacred Coat—now they are touching it.” Margret heard whispering around her. “Now they will be freed from all their sins and the sick ones will be made well.” Oh, those happy ones!
Heavy tears rolled over Margret’s cheeks. She had wandered so far on her tired feet, and now she stood so near the door, and yet could not get in to the Sacred Coat. Bitter sobs shook her breast. A couple of well-dressed gentlemen beside her began to notice her. “What are you crying for, girl?” asked one of them in a friendly tone. She was startled at first, then she stammered: “I—I—I’ve come from so far—from way up in the Eifel—I got a sick mother at home—Here’s her shirt”—she drew an end of it out of the bundle—“I was to touch the Sacred Coat with it—And now I can’t get in at all—Oh, dear Lord Jesus—and—and—and now my mother won’t get well at all.” The gentleman bit his lips and nudged his companion, who put his hat to his face and turned away. Then the first gentleman spoke again: “My dear child, you needn’t cry so. It isn’t at all necessary that you should go into the church. Step a little this way, now raise yourself up as high as you can—there, do you see, inside the church, something red in front of the altar? That is the Sacred Coat. Now they are moving it. Can you see it?”
Oh, that was it, was it, that bright red thing? How clear and sharp the color was, like the girl’s skirt in the inn. Margret stood on the tips of her toes and stretched out her hands: “Sacred Coat—My mother—”
“Shh—” The strange gentleman drew her down again. “Now, you see, you have seen the Sacred Coat, and it has seen you; it can hear your voice from here. Now, you pray the best you can, and when they begin to sing again in the church, and the bells toll, then your mother will get well.”
Margret hid her face in her hands. Oh, she could pray, and she would pray the best she knew how. She prayed until the drops came out on her forehead, all the prayers that she had ever learned, and gave them all as refrain the same line over and over again: “Sacred Coat, O Sacred Coat, make my mother well.”
Within the church the great organ toned out again, and the voices floated down, “Ecclesia, missa, est.” Margret rose from her knees with a great and confident joy in her heart. Now her mother would be well again. She knew it.
As she looked about her she could see nothing more of the friendly gentleman. The crowd was beginning to disperse. And now she discovered for the first time how very tired and hungry she was. Her knees trembled; the sun burned down hot upon her, and white clouds grew up in the sky, as if portending a thunderstorm.
She felt that she must rest a little, but not here in the hot and dusty city. She wanted to be out again, past the gates, amid the green; then she could start on her homeward way refreshed.
She walked back unhindered through the streets by which she had come; with her last pennies she bought some bread and fruit. Then she hurried out with her packages over the old bridge to her cozy willow grove beside the Moselle. The noise of the city remained behind her; nothing moved about her here but the breath of the wind in the bushes, and the hum of the little blue flies in the air. Every now and then a fish would spring out of the river and fall back again into the refreshing flood with a little splash. A dreamy silence surrounded the tired girl. There was no sound of the bells, no human voice, nothing but peace and rest.