some leaning against
the backs of chairs, some resting one arm upon the plastered bases of
the yellow marble columns. There were many lights on the high altar. Two
acolytes, rough-headed boys of Subiaco, knelt within the altar rail,
dressed in black cassocks and clean linen cottas. Two priests and a
young deacon sat side by side on the right of the altar, with small
black books in their hands. The nuns were chanting, unseen in the choir.
No one noticed Dalrymple, wrapped in his cloak, as he leaned against the
pillar near the door. His head was a little inclined, involuntarily
respectful to ceremonies he neither believed in nor understood, but
which had in them the imposing element of devout earnestness. Yet his
eyes were raised and looked up from under his brows, steadily and
watchfully, for he knew that Maria Addolorata was behind the screen, and
from the first moment of entering the church it seemed to him that he
could distinguish her voice from the rest.

He knew that it was hers, though he had never heard her sing. There was
in all those sweet, colourless tones one tone that made ringing
harmonies in his strong heart. Amongst all those mingling accents, there
was one accent that touched his soul. Amidst the echoes that died softly
away under the dim arches, there was one echo that died not, but rang on
and on in his ears. There was a voice not like other voices there, nor
like any he had ever heard. Many were strong and sweet; this one was not
sweet and strong only, but alive with a divine life, winged with divine
wings, essential of immortality, touching beyond tears, passionate as
the living, breathing, sighing, dying world, grand as a flood of light,
sad as the twilight of gods, full as a great water swinging to the tide
of the summer's moon, fine-drawn as star-rays--a voice of gold.

As Dalrymple stood there in the shadow, he heard it singing to him and
telling him all that he had not been told in words, all that he felt,
and more also. For there was in it the passion of the woman, and the
passionate remorse of the nun, the towering love of Maria Braccio,
woman and princess, and the deep despair of Maria Addolorata, nun and
sinner, unfaithful spouse of the Lord Christ, accused and self-accusing,
self-wronged, self-judged, but condemned of God and foretasting the
ultimate tragedy that is eternal--the tragedy of supreme hell.

The man who stood there knew that it was his doing, and the burden of
his deeds bowe