that were bluer than those of Provence. And a tall
man, he saw, with a small reddish beard; a poorly
clad man who looked like a peasant. And this man
had made a cup of his hands and was holding a bird,
and ^ the bird was singing. Yes, right up into his
smiling face the bird sang; Christophe could see
its minute ruffled throat, could perceive all the joy
that throbbed in that song, could divine the creature's
sense of protection.

Then words, heard as though through illimitable
Dace: 'This is my brother —shew mercy to all

And again, on the road to Jerusalem . . . the man
had paused, seeing a beast of burden, a pack-mule
that stumbled beneath its load — inarticulate, humble
and heavy-laden. He had flung the load from its
aching withers, and its withers were pitifully galled
and bleeding . . . He was healing the galls with the
touch of his hand . . . 'This is my brother — shew
mercy to all things.'
And now he was in the street of a town, a populous
hill-town — its name was Nain. He was kneeling
beside a dying dog, a pariah dying in great desola-
tion. The gaunt yellow creature lay stretched out in
the sun, too feeble to drag itself into shelter, and its
body was covered with festering sores, but its eyes
looked into the eyes of the man with an indescribable
expectation . . . He was laying his hands upon the
beast's head: 'Our Father . . . into Thy merciful
keeping. . . .'
Christophe sprang up with a stifled cry: 'Mireio!'
he gasped. And again: 'Mireio!'
It was over. He saw the walls of his room, saw the
cheap but familiar print of the Virgin, saw his narrow
oak bed with its clean white quilt, saw the stars
gleaming in through his dormer window. He ran
to the window and looked down on the street he had
N 193