WHITEWASH
A sway and jar in the packed roadway announced that at last progress was possible. The interrupted tramp of the march again began. Somewhere in the front a chorus of men's voices intoned the ancient Breton chant of St. Anne. It spread from rank to rank, as fire whips across a prairie, till the whole throng rocked with it—an immense emotional swell.
Vic's face paled a little, and she shook her shoulders as if to throw off the hysterical contagion of the crowd.
Sonia looked sympathy. "Grips one right by the throat, doesn't it?"
There was no more stopping now. The procession in its compact thousands advanced as if lifted bodily. The weary straightened themselves, the sick lifted their heads, the eyes of the dying lit once more.
"Makes one understand the crusades," Shorty murmured, tearfully.
The resistless stream poured on to its destination, spreading out as it reached the vast paved square in front of the church, and the green acres before the Scala Santa.
