the shrubs, and mingles with the fragrance of flowers upon the
terraces. Presently the clergy and the pilgrims come forth, and,
forming a long procession, descend the Way of the Cross; and as the
burning tapers that they carry shine and flash amongst the foliage,
these words, familiar to every pilgrim to Roc-Amadour, sung by
hundreds of voices, may be heard afar off in the dark desolate gorge:

'Reine puissante, Mère d'Amour,
Sois-nous compatissante,
O Vierge d'Amadour!'

It is now the vigil of All Souls--the 'Day of the Dead.' No more
pilgrims come to Roc-Amadour. A breeze would send the sapless
walnut-leaves whirling through the air, but there is no breeze; Nature
seems to hold her breath as she thinks of the dead whom she has
gathered to her earthy breast. At sundown the people creep out of
their houses silently and solemnly; they meet at the bottom of the
steps, and when they are joined by the clergy and choirboys, all move
slowly upward, praying for the dead and kneeling upon each step. As
their forms seen sideways show against the dusky sky, they look like
shadows from the ghostly world, and still more so when the rocks on
the other side of the gorge brighten again, as with the blood of the
pomegranate made luminous, and through the air there spreads a
beautiful solemn light that is tenderly yet deeply sad, and which adds
something unearthly, something that cannot be named, to the ascending
figures.

As the dusk deepens to darkness the funereal _glas_ begins to moan
from St. Saviour's Church. Two bells are rung together so as to make
as nearly as possible one clash of sound. At first it is a moan, but