range as the crypt itself, which, with its furtive lights and
breadths of shadow, was at once penitential and soothing.

Durtal went up the broader aisle to the left arm of the cross and sat
down; the tiny transept had its little altar, with a Greek cross in
relief against a purple disk. Overhead the enormous curve of the
vaulting hung heavy, and so low that a man could touch it by stretching
an arm; it was as black as the mouth of a chimney, and scorched by the
fires that had consumed the cathedrals built above it.

Presently the clap-clap of sabots became audible, and then the smothered
footfall of nuns; there was silence but for sneezing and nose-blowing
stifled by pocket-handkerchiefs, and then all was still.

A sacristan came in through a little door opening into the other
transept, and lighted the tapers on the high altar; then strings of
silver-gilt hearts became visible in the semicircle all along the walls,
reflecting the blaze of flames, and forming a glory for a statue of the
Virgin sitting, stiff and dark, with a Child on Her knees. This was the
famous Virgin of the Cavern, or rather a copy of it, for the original
was burnt in 1793 in front of the great porch of the Cathedral, amid the
delirious raving of _sans-culottes_.

A choir-boy came in, followed by an old priest; and then, for the first
time, Durtal saw the Mass really as a service, and understood the
wonderful beauty that lies inherent in a devout commemoration of the
Sacrifice.

The boy on his knees, his soul aspiring and his hands clasped, spoke
aloud and slowly, rehearsing the responses of the Psalm with such deep
attention and respect, that the meaning of this noble liturgy, which has
ceased to amaze us, because we are so used to hearing it stammered out
in hot haste, was suddenly revealed to Durtal.

And the priest himself, unconsciously, whether he would or no, took up
the child's tone, imitating him, speaking slowly, not merely tripping
the verses off the tip of his tongue, but absorbed in the words he had
to repeat; and he seemed overwhelmed, as though it were his first Mass,
by the grandeur of the rite of which he was to be the instrument.

In fact, Durtal heard the celebrant's voice tremble when standing before
the altar in the presence of the Father, like the Son Himself whom he
represented, and imploring forgiveness for all the sins of the world
which He bore on His shoulders, supported in his grief and hope by the
innocence of the