y, as if they distrusted the other passers-by. A policeman
stopped our friends. They displayed their passes, and he allowed them to
pursue their way without further questions. At last, they reached the
Place Royale, and turned into a side street. At a half-open door stood a
man clad in a blouse, and wearing a red cap. Cornelia said a few words
to him in a low tone.

"Pass in," was his response.

He stepped aside. Dolores and Cornelia hastily entered, but Coursegol,
who was to watch in the street, remained outside. The two women ascended
to the fifth floor, and at last reached a door which was guarded as the
one below had been. Cornelia gave the password and they entered. They
traversed several rooms and finally found themselves in a spacious
apartment dimly lighted by two candles. There were no windows, and the
only means of lighting and ventilating the room was a sky-light; but
this was now covered with heavy linen, undoubtedly for the purpose of
concealing what was passing within from any spy who might be seized with
a fancy for a promenade on the roof. At one end of the room, and
separated from it by a thick curtain, was an alcove. There were about
twenty people, mostly women, in the room. Every one stood silent and
motionless, as if awaiting some mysterious event. When the clock struck
eleven, a voice from behind the curtain said: "Close the doors."

The man on guard obeyed and came and took his place with the others, who
with one accord fell upon their knees. At the same instant, the curtains
parted, revealing the interior of the alcove in which stood a lighted
altar surmounted by a cross of dark wood. At the foot of the altar stood
an old white-haired priest, arrayed in sacerdotal robes, and assisted by
two young men who acted as a choir. The service began. Dolores could not
restrain her tears. After a few moments she became calmer and began to
pray. She prayed fervently for Philip, for Antoinette, for all whom she
loved and for herself. The ceremony was short. The priest addressed a
brief exhortation to his audience. The time of pomp and of long sermons
had gone by. At any moment they might be surprised, and the life of
every one present would have been in danger had they been arrested in
that modest room which had become for the nonce the only asylum of the
proscribed Romish Church.

When the service was concluded, the curtains were again drawn and the
worshippers withdrew, not without depositing in a box an