ramed alike in gilt, bore its suitable inscription in staring
black letters. "Simon, The Cyrenean, Helps Jesus to Carry His Cross."
"Saint Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus." "Jesus Falls for the Fourth
Time," and so on. Half-way up the length of the church the pews began,
coffin-like boxes of blackened oak, shining from years of friction, each
with its door; while over them, and built out from the wall, was the
pulpit, with its tarnished gilt sounding-board above it, like the raised
cover of a great hat-box. Between the pews, in the aisle, the violent
vermilion of a strip of ingrain carpet assaulted the eye. Farther on
were the steps to the altar, the chancel rail of worm-riddled oak, the
high altar, with its napery from the bargain counters of a San Francisco
store, the massive silver candlesticks, each as much as one man could
lift, the gift of a dead Spanish queen, and, last, the pictures of the
chancel, the Virgin in a glory, a Christ in agony on the cross, and
St. John the Baptist, the patron saint of the Mission, the San Juan
Bautista, of the early days, a gaunt grey figure, in skins, two fingers
upraised in the gesture of benediction.

The air of the place was cool and damp, and heavy with the flat, sweet
scent of stale incense smoke. It was of a vault-like stillness, and the
closing of the door behind Vanamee reechoed from corner to corner with a
prolonged reverberation of thunder.

However, Father Sarria was not in the church. Vanamee took a couple of
turns the length of the aisle, looking about into the chapels on either
side of the chancel. But the building was deserted. The priest had been
there recently, nevertheless, for the altar furniture was in disarray,
as though he had been rearranging it but a moment before. On both sides
of the church and half-way up their length, the walls were pierced by
low archways, in which were massive wooden doors, clamped with iron
bolts. One of these doors, on the pulpit side of the church, stood ajar,
and stepping to it and pushing it wide open, Vanamee looked diagonally
across a little patch of vegetables--beets, radishes, and lettuce--to
the rear of the building that had once contained the cloisters, and
through an open window saw Father Sarria diligently polishing the silver
crucifix that usually stood on the high altar. Vanamee did not call
to the priest. Putting a finger to either temple, he fixed his eyes
steadily upon him for a moment as he moved about at his work.