The eyes of the drunken man caught sight of this, and wavered. The presence
of the crowd conveyed no meaning to his dazed brains. But there was
something in the familiar symbol which held his vision. He looked, and
crossed himself, remembering the traditions of his childhood. Some of
the boys were humming as they went the stirring strains of an ancient
Christmas march known to all nations; a carol which began, some say, as a
rousing drinking chorus.

The familiar strain touched some chord in the sodden brain. The man gave a
feeble whinny, trying to follow the melody. He pulled himself together and
lurched forward in a sudden impulse to join the band of pilgrims. But by
the time he had taken three steps they had vanished, miraculously, as it
seemed to him.

"Begorra, they're gone!" he cried. "Who were they? Were they rale folks?
What was it they was singin'?"

He sank back helplessly on a flight of steps. "_Ve-ni-te a-do-re-mus!_" he
croaked in a quavering basso. And his tangled mind went through strange
processes. Suddenly, there came to him in a flash of exaggerated memory the
figure of the Christmas Angel which not ten minutes earlier he had kicked
into the street. A pious horror fell upon him.

"Mither o' mercy!" he cried, again crossing himself. "What have I been an'
done? It was a howly image; an' what did I do to ut? Lemme go back an' find
ut, an' take ut up out av the street."

Greatly sobered by his fear, he staggered down the block and around the
corner to the steps of Miss Terry's house.