ing from the fragments we caught, this was to be a kind of Passion Play. Although I had been at Carcassonne before, I didn't know that such a thing existed in France, or, indeed, outside Oberammergau and a few villages in the Tyrol. Miss Randolph questioned me about it, but I could tell her nothing, and she exclaimed rather shamefacedly, "Oh, how I should love to go!"
"Would you let me take you there, just to look on for a few minutes, miss?" I doubtfully asked.
"I should like it above anything," said she. "Only—we've already kept those poor people waiting too long, I'm afraid."
"This needn't keep them very much longer," said I, "and it may be the last chance you will ever have of seeing such a thing."
"Oh, well, I can't resist," she cried. "Well go—and I'll take the scolding afterwards."
We did go, following our leaders until we came to a good-sized booth with a crowd round it. The admission was twopence each, but the best seats cost a franc. We went in and found ourselves in a long, canvas room, with sloping seats and a small stage at one end lighted by oil lamps.
The place was dreadfully hot, and smelled strongly of humanity. Presently a bell rang; there was solemn music on a tinkling piano and a young actor, bare-faced and dressed in a white classical dress, took his place near the stage, beginning to recite in a clear, sympathetic voice. He was the choragus, explaining to us what was to happen in. the play. The curtain went up, to reveal a tableau
