Under the deep blue heavens, even the buildings at first remained vague, forming but blacker patches against the sky.

Little by little, however, as the number of candles increased, the principal architectural lines--the tapering spire of the Basilica, the cyclopean arches of the gradient ways, the heavy, squat facade of the Rosary--became more distinctly visible.

And with that ceaseless torrent of bright sparks, flowing slowly downward with the stubborn persistence of a stream which has overflowed its banks and can be stopped by nothing, there came as it were an aurora, a growing, invading mass of light, which would at last spread its glory over the whole horizon.
"Look, look, Pierre!" cried Marie, in an access of childish joy.

"There is no end of them; fresh ones are ever shining out." Indeed, the sudden appearances of the little lights continued with mechanical regularity, as though some inexhaustible celestial source were pouring forth all those solar specks.

The head of the procession had just reached the gardens, near the crowned statue of the Virgin, so that as yet the double file of flames merely outlined the curves of the Rosary and the broad inclined way.