Part 55 (1/2)

”Rosalie Evanturel has gone inside for the little cross on the pillar.

She is in the flames; the door has fallen in. She can't get out again.”

With a hoa.r.s.e cry, Charley darted back inside the vestry door. A cry of horror went up.

It was only a minute and a half, but it seemed like years, and then a man in flames appeared in the fiery porch--and not alone. He carried a girl in his arms. He wavered even at the threshold with the timbers swaying overhead, but, with a last effort, he plunged forward through the furnace, and was caught by eager hands on the margin of endurable heat. The two were smothered in quilts brought from the Cure's house, and carried swiftly to the cool safety of the gra.s.s and trees beyond.

The woman had fainted in the flame of the church; the man dropped insensible as they caught her from his arms.

As they tore away Charley's coat m.u.f.fling his face, and opened his s.h.i.+rt, they stared in awe. The cross which Rosalie had torn from the pillar, Charley had thrust into his bosom, and there it now lay on the red scar made by itself in the hands of Louis Trudel.

M. Loisel waved the people back. He raised Charley's head. The Abbe Rossignol, who had just arrived with the Seigneur, lifted the cross from the insensible man's breast.

He started when he saw the scar. Then he remembered the tale he had heard. He turned away gravely to his brother. ”Was it the cross or the woman he went for?” he asked.

”Great G.o.d--do you ask!” the Seigneur said indignantly. ”And he deserves her,” he muttered under his breath.

Charley opened his eyes. ”Is she safe?” he asked, starting up.

”Unscathed, my son,” the Cure said.

Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a hart for the water-brooks?

”I am very sorry for you, Monsieur,” said Charley.

”It is G.o.d's will,” was the reply, in a choking voice. ”It will be years before we have another church--many, many years.”

The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming debris.

The people groaned.

”It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again,” said Filion Laca.s.se.

”We have three thousand dollars from the Pa.s.sion Play,” said the Notary.

”That could go towards it.”

”We have another two thousand in the bank,” said Maximilian Cour.

”But it will take years,” said the saddler disconsolately.

Charley looked at the Cure, mournful and broken but calm. He saw the Seigneur, gloomy and silent, standing apart. He saw the people in scattered groups, looking more homeless than if they had no homes. Some groups were silent; others discussed angrily the question, who was the incendiary--that it had been set on fire seemed certain.

”I said no good would come of the play-acting,” said the Seigneur's groom, and was flung into the ditch by Filion Laca.s.se.

Presently Charley staggered to his feet, purpose in his face. These people, from the Cure and Seigneur to the most ignorant habitant, were hopeless and inert. The pride of their lives was gone.

”Gather the people together,” he said to the Notary and Filion Laca.s.se.

Then he turned to the Cure and the Seigneur.

”With your permission, messieurs,” he said, ”I will do a harder thing than I have ever done. I will speak to them all.”