. . Lady," they would sigh, looking at them with
dark, sparkling eyes. And not content with the hand, their dark paws
would venture the length of the entire arm while the ladies laughed at
this tremulous adoration. Others would go through the crowds, offering
their right hand to all the women. "We touch hands." . . . And then they
would go away satisfied after receiving the hand clasp.
Desnoyers wandered a long time around the basilica where, in the shadow
of the trees, were long rows of wheeled chairs occupied by the wounded.
Officers and soldiers rested many hours in the blue shade, watching
their comrades who were able to use their legs. The sacred grotto was
resplendent with the lights from hundreds of candles. Devout crowds
were kneeling in the open air, fixing their eyes in supplication on the
sacred stones whilst their thoughts were flying far away to the fields
of battle, making their petitions with that confidence in divinity which
accompanies every distress. Among the kneeling mass were many soldiers
with bandaged heads, kepis in hand and tearful eyes.
Up and down the double staircase of the basilica were flitting women,
clad in white, with spotless headdresses that fluttered in such a way
that they appeared like flying doves. These were the nurses and Sisters
of Charity guiding the steps of the injured. Desnoyers thought he
recognized Marguerite in every one of them, but the prompt disillusion
following each of these discoveries soon made him doubtful about the
outcome of his journey.
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