The many whisperers stretched upward to see.

The African mute came very slowly toward the gate, leading by a cord in the nose a small brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart.

On the flat body of the cart, under a black cloth, were seen the outlines of a long box.
"Hats off, gentlemen," said little White, as the box came in view, and the crowd silently uncovered.
"Gentlemen," said little White, "here come the last remains of Jean Marie Poquelin, a better man, I'm afraid, with all his sins,--yes a better--a kinder man to his blood--a man of more self-forgetful goodness--than all of you put together will ever dare to be." There was a profound hush as the vehicle came creaking through the gate; but when it turned away from them toward the forest, those in front started suddenly.

There was a backward rush, then all stood still again staring one way; for there, behind the bier, with eyes cast down and labored step, walked the living remains--all that was left--of little Jacques Poquelin, the long-hidden brother--a leper, as white as snow.
Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon the walking death.

They watched, in silent awe, the slow _cortege_ creep down the long, straight road and lessen on the view, until by and by it stopped where a wild, unfrequented path branched off into the undergrowth toward the rear of the ancient city.
"They are going to the _Terre aux Lepreux_," said one in the crowd.