the screens and the altars, "all the carved work
thereof they break down with hatchet and hammer," they tore the hangings
from the shrines, they found the sacred cups, and filling them with
sacramental wine, drank with gusts of ribald laughter. In the centre of
the choir they built a bonfire, and fed it with pictures, carvings, and
oaken benches, so that it blazed and roared furiously. On to it--for
this mob did not come to steal but to work vengeance--they threw
utensils of gold and silver, the priceless jewelled offerings of
generations, and danced around its flames in triumph, while from every
side came the crash of falling statues and the tinkling of shattered
glass.

The light of that furnace shone through the lattice stonework of the
tomb, and in its lurid and ominous glare Adrian beheld the faces of
those who refuged with him. What a picture it was; the niches filled
with mouldering boxes, the white gleam of human bones that here and
there had fallen from them, the bright furnishings and velvet pall of
the coffin of the newcomer on which he stood--and then those faces. The
priests, still crouched in corners, rolling on the ground, their white
lips muttering who knows what; the sacristan in a swoon, Hague Simon
hugging a coffin in a niche, as a drowning man hugs a plank, and,
standing in the midst of them, calm, sardonic and watchful, a drawn
rapier in his hand, his father Ramiro.

"We are lost," moaned a priest, losing control of himself. "We are lost.
They will kill us as they have killed the holy Abbe."

"We are not lost," hissed Ramiro, "we are quite safe, but, friend,
if you open that cursed mouth of yours again it shall be for the last
time," and he lifted his sword, adding, "Silence; he who speaks, dies."

How long did it last? Was it one hour, or two or three? None of them
knew, but at length the image-breaking was done, and it came to an end.
The interior of the church, with all its wealth and adornments, was
utterly destroyed, but happily the flames did not reach the roof, and
the walls could not catch fire.

By degrees the iconoclasts wearied; there seemed to be nothing more to
break, and the smoke choked them. Two or three at a time they left the
ravaged place, and once more it became solemn and empty; a symbol of
Eternity mocking Time, of Peace conquering Tumult, of the Patience and
Purpose of God triumphant over the passions and ravings of Man. Little
curls of smoke went up from the smouldering