The archbishop stepped up on the base of the pedestal of the statue to the Maid of Orleans. He raised his hand impressively.
“My children,” he began in a voice tremulous with emotion. “The Master admonishes us to love our enemies, to do good to them that hate us, to pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us. If we do good only to those who love us, how much better are we than the heathen? Did you not see that, despite its destruction, the Angel of Rheims smiled on?” He spread out his arms in an agony of entreaty. “Oh my children,” he pleaded, “do not fail me now!”
The rays of the rising sun shone on his face and illumined it with unearthly radiance. The people stood spellbound before him.
Once more he raised his hand and, pointing to the burning cathedral, cried in a resonant voice that rang like a clarion:
“The wounded! Who helps me rescue them?”
Still that tense silence hung over the motionless throng which the crackling of the flames, and the moaning and singing of death as it whistled through the air, only served to accentuate.
The old vitrier elbowed his way through the crowd and, laying his hand on the base of the statue, said in a clear, loud voice:
“Monseigneur, I will assist.”
In the uncertain light the two old men stood scanning the quivering, upturned faces. Then a sudden change swept over the mass.
“Au secours! Au secours!” The voice of the crowd rose as from one man in a cry, increasing in volume with each repetition until, in the archbishop’s ears, it sounded like a shout of victory. The men turned, and surged toward the entrance of the cathedral.