At last a low murmur ran through the crowd. The child with the evil spirit was being brought in, and “Zia” Batdra caught a glimpse of her. The wasted little body was clad entirely in black, and the eyes were of a strange metallic color and shone with an unearthly light. The child was bound, but made no effort at resistance, nor did she utter a conscious of an unusual feeling of pity for the woman so grievously afflicted.
The crowd, having recovered from its fear, was no longer silent, and confused murmurs echoed and re-echoed from the opposite walls of the church. As the noise increased Batora suddenly thought she heard her own name called by a mysterious voice. The woman of Ala seemed to be saying, “Why do you come here to bewail? What have you to desire, what have you to ask? I alone am unhappy. What mother can be so unfortunate? Batora, Batora, conquer your pride!” and her own name was repeated a thousand times by the echoes of the church. A wave of remorse and repentance surged through her heart, and a feeling of overwhelming tenderness prompted her to turn and kiss the cheek of the infant whose breath almost touched her face, but she could not; no, as yet she could not!
The heartrending spectacle at the altar, combined with such a display of maternal grief and love, had aroused in Batora a series of bewildering sensations, and the sobs of the mother heard above the shrieks of the child had the effect upon her of acute physical pain. She knew not where nor how, but she felt herself suffocated, strangled.
The demented girl in her writhing had broken the cords which bound her, and it was necessary to summon the gendarmes in order to hold her down. The priests persisted in their efforts to make her kiss the crucifix, but the attempts only increased her blasphemy.
All of a sudden Batora saw the mother of the child arise as if by inspiration and dry her tears. She took the crucifix from the hands of the priest and in an attitude of deepest reverence held it before the face of the child.
Ave Maria
The little one was quiet in an instant. It was like enchantment. Her eyes melted into a fatigued and dreamy languor, and sinking into an attitude of prayer she repeated the “Ave Maria” in a voice subdued and full of piety.
“Figlia mia—daughter mine!” cried the mother, overcome with joy.
The crowd dropped to their knees, and with trembling voice responded to the “Ave Maria” of the child.
The miracle had been performed. The entire congregation gave vent to that sobbing and wailing which is the expression of fear of the supernatural—of the surprise and dread felt by the soul at the mysterious exhibition of its own simplicity.
“Zia” Batora was one of these.
She returned to the village with the babe of Sadurra in her arms and its mother by her side, while the good people of Bitti said to one another, “This year our Madonna has performed not one, but two miracles.”
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