fingers fluttered to the seat in front of him, to draw himself up, a
voice came from the corner opposite, saying: "M'sieu' le Cure, I will
go."

A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then went
round an almost incredulous whisper: "Parpon the dwarf!"

Parpon's deep eyes were fixed on the Cure, his hunched body leaning on
the railing in front of him, his long, strong arms stretched out as if he
were begging for some good thing. The murmur among the people increased,
but the Cure raised his hand to command silence, and his eyes gazed
steadily at the dwarf. It might seem that he was noting the huge head,
the shaggy hair, the overhanging brows, the weird face of this distortion
of a thing made in God's own image. But he was thinking instead of how
the angel and the devil may live side by side in a man, and neither be
entirely driven out--and the angel conquer in great times and seasons.

He beckoned to Parpon to come over, and the dwarf trotted with a sidelong
motion to the chancel steps. Every face in the congregation was eager,
and some were mystified, even anxious. They all knew the singular power
of the little man--his knowledge, his deep wit, his judgment, his
occasional fierceness, his infrequent malice; but he was kind to children
and the sick, and the Cure and the Avocat and their little coterie
respected him. Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when he had
sung in the Mass, the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette the
miller, for whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut by the
Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most wonderful
power and sweetness had been heard singing; but this was only rumour.
Yet when the body of the miller's wife lay in the church, he had sung so
that men and women wept and held each other's hands for joy. He had