mingled in a single motley, shining, moving, many-limbed body.

The end of the procession was now approaching, and physical weakness
suddenly asserted itself most painfully.

Barbara felt only too plainly that it was time to leave her post of
observation; her feet would scarcely carry her and, besides, she was
freezing.

She had entered the damp cave chamber in a thin summer gown, and it now
seemed to be continually growing colder and colder.

Climbing down the high steps taxed her like a difficult, almost
impossible task, and perhaps she might not have succeeded in
accomplishing it unaided; but she had scarcely commenced the descent when
she heard her name called, and soon after Sister Hyacinthe entered the
frigidarium and, amid no lack of kindly reproaches, helped her to reach
the open air.

When even in the warm sunshine the chill did not pass away, Barbara saw
that the sister was right, yet she was far from feeling repentant.

During the night a violent attack of fever seized her, and her inflamed
throat was extremely painful.

When Dr. Mathys came to her bedside he already knew from the nun the
cause of this unfortunate relapse, and he understood only too well what
had induced Barbara to commit the grave imprudence. Reproof and warnings
were useless here; the only thing he could do was to act, and renew the
conflict with the scarcely subdued illness. Thanks to his indefatigable