o the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It
was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud,
and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line
had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost
hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about
Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church,
and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track.

The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he
crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late
comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes
wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning
on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the
centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as
the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and
looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of
her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of
recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his
steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It
was plain that she did not know him.

How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse
and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair
was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and
blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him
even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a
devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a
slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step
toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was
near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused.

"Felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her.

"I am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark,
mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a
lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears.

Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be
nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had
just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup
more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning
devotions before t