d him bodily as he stood. But still he listened, and, as
she sung, he watched her lips in the dark, inner mirror of sin's memory,
and they drew him on.

Little by little, he heard only her voice, and the others chanted but
faintly as from an infinite distance. And then, not in his thought, but
in deed, she was singing alone, and the words of 'O Salutaris Hostia,'
sounded in the dim church as they had never sounded before, nor could
ever sound again, the appeal of a lost soul's agony to God, the glory of
golden voice, the accent of transcendent genius, the passion, the
strength, the despair, of an ancient race.

In the dark church the coarse, sad peasant women bowed themselves upon
the pavement. One of them sobbed aloud and beat her breast. Angus
Dalrymple kneeled upon one knee and pressed his brow against the foot of
the pillar, kneeling neither to God, nor to the Sacred Host, nor to
man's belief in Heaven or Hell, neither praying nor blaspheming,
neither hoping nor dreading, but spell-bound upon a wrack of torture
that was heart-breaking delight, his senses torn and strained to the
utmost of his strong endurance, to the very scream of passion, his soul
crucified upon the exquisite loveliness of his sin.

Then all was still for an instant. Again there was a sound of voices, as
the nuns sang in chorus the 'Tantum Ergo.' But the voice of voices was
silent among them. The solemn Benediction blessed the just and the
unjust alike. The short verses and responses of the priests broke the
air that still seemed alive and trembling.

Dalrymple rose slowly, and wrapped his cloak about him. Above the
footsteps of the women going out of the church, he could hear the soft
sound of all the nuns moving together as they left the choir. He knew
that she was with them, and he stood motionless in his place till
silence descended as a curtain between him and what had been. Then, with
bent head, he went out into the rain that poured through the dim
twilight.

CHAPTER X.

THEY were together on the following day. The abbess was better, and as
yet there had been no return of the syncope which Dalrymple dreaded.

Contrary to her habit, Maria Addolorata sat on a high chair by the
table, her head veiled and turned away, her chin supported in her hand.
Dalrymple was seated not far from her, leaning forward, and trying to
see her face, silent, and in a dangerous mood. She had refused to let
him come near her, and even to raise her ve