Then in the air, slowly the shrines begin to descend, and the crowd bursts into shouts and cries of “O great Saint Marys!” And as the cord unrolls, screams and contortions increase, arms are raised, faces upturned, every one awaits a miracle. Suddenly, from the end of the church, rushing across the nave, as though she had wings, a beautiful girl, her fair hair falling about her, flung herself towards the floating shrines, crying: “O great saints--in pity give me back the love of my betrothed.” All rose to their feet. “It is Alarde!” exclaimed the people from Beaucaire, while the rest murmured awestruck, “It is Saint Mary Magdalen come to visit her sisters.” Every one wept with emotion. The following day took place the procession on the sea-shore to the soft murmur and splash of the breaking waves. In the distance, on the high seas, two or three ships tacked about as though coming in, while all along the coast extended the long procession, ever seeming to lengthen out with the moving line of the waves. It was just here, says the legend,[13] that the three Saint Marys in their skiff were cast ashore in Provence after the death of Our Lord. And looking out over the wide glistening sea, that lies in the midst of such visions and memories, illuminated by the radiant sunshine, it seemed to us in truth we were on the threshold of Paradise. Our little friend Alarde, looking rather pale after the emotions of the previous day, was one of a group of maidens chosen to bear on their shoulders the “Boat of the Saints,” and many murmurs of sympathy followed her as she passed. This was the last we saw of her, for, so soon as the saints had reascended to their chapel, we took the omnibus for Aigues-Mortes, together with a crowd of people returning to Montpellier and Lundy, who beguiled the way by singing in chorus hymns to the Saints of the Sea. STANZAS FROM “MIREILLE”[14] The sisters and the brothers, we Who followed him ever constantly, To the raging sea were cruelly driven In a crazy ship without a sail, Without an oar, ’mid the angry gale; We women could only weep and wail-- The men uplifted their eyes to Heaven! A gust tempestuous drives the ship O’er fearsome waves, in the wild storm’s grip; Martial and Saturninus, lowly In prayer kneel yonder on the prow; Old Trophimus with thoughtful brow Sits closely wrapped in his mantle now By Maximus, the Bishop holy. There on the deck, amid the gloom, Stands Lazarus, of shroud and tomb Always the mortal pallor keeping; His glance the raging gulf defies; And with the doomed ship onward flies Martha his sister; there, too, lies Magdalen, o’er her sorrows weeping.