followed. The Cure made the sign of the cross upon his breast and
forehead, and every other man, woman, and child present did the same.
Then all knelt, save Francois and the Cure himself.

What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful benign figure;
barefooted, with a girdle about his waist: the very truth and semblance
of a man. The type was strong and yet delicate; vigorous and yet
refined; crude and yet noble; a leader of men--the God-man, not the
man-God.

After a moment's silence the Cure spoke. "Francois, my son," said he,
"we have erred. 'All we like sheep have gone astray; we have followed
each after his own way, but God hath laid on Him'--he looked towards the
statue--'the iniquity of us all.'"

Francois stood still a moment gazing at the Cure, doggedly, bitterly;
then he turned and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their
feet again. Among them was a girl crying as if her heart would break.
It was Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her coldly.

"You were so ready to suspect," he said.

Then he turned once more to the Cure. "I meant it as my gift to the
Church, monsieur le Cure--to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked
up here to what I might do in sculpture, and you--you all were so ready
to suspect! Take it, it is my last gift."

He went to the statue, touched the hands of it lovingly, and stooped and
kissed the feet. Then, without more words, he turned and left the shed
and the house.