CHAPTER xxix

Cure stood tall and erect in the pulpit. His
brown and slightly prominent eyes which of
late had been dulled by advancing years, now blazed
with fanaticism. Extending an arm and a long white
finger he pointed down at his congregation who stared
back at die finger with something like awe as their
pastor continued to address them. The Cure's voice
rang out like a challenge. It was virile, the voice of
a man of twenty whose physical passions were
clamorous, who could love and hate with intensity
should passion once get the better of reason.
A deep hush brooded over the ancient church,
brooded over those pallid upturned faces, for the
Cure was gripping them one and all He whose
bloodless sermons they had slept through so often,
was now skilfully playing upon their emotions as a
master will play on a violin, so that beyond a few
gasping sighs his words struck sharply on silence.
'Rise up! Rise up!5 cried the Cure Martel, 'Defend
yourselves against the blasphemers! The barbarians
have invaded France, our beloved soil is beneath their
heel, and like Attila they will show no mercy. Ah,
my brothers, my sisters, the soil of France is sobbing
and looking to you for deliverance. The very stones
are crying aloud for deliverance, yes, but also for
vengeance! The German hordes are defiling Liege,
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