by the tail of the car. She could have cried then because of the sheer
beauty of the curé's act, even while she wondered whether perhaps the
wafer on his tongue might not choke the dying man.

The curé hovered on the edge of the car, stooping with a certain
awkwardness; she took from him his missal and his purple bag as he
gathered his cassock about him and came down.

"Can I do anything, Monsieur?"

"No, Mademoiselle. It _is_ done."

His eyes smiled at her; but his lips were quivering as he took again
his missal and his purple bag. She watched him going on slowly down the
street till he turned into the wine-shop. She wondered: Had he seen?
Did he know why John was there? In another minute John came out,
hurrying to the car.

He glanced down at the blood stains by the back step; then he looked in;
and when he saw the man lying on the stretcher he turned on her in fury.

"What are you thinking of? I told you you weren't to take him."

"I had to. I couldn't leave him there. I thought--"

"You've no business to think."

"Well, but the curé--"

"The curé doesn't know anything about it."