ted
beyond, behind the iconostasis. On the ground, on mats, whole families
are seated in circle, as if they were in their homes. A thick deposit of
white chalk on the defaced, shrunken walls bears witness to great age.
And over all this is a strange old ceiling of cedarwood, traversed by
large barbaric beams.

In the nave, supported by columns of marble, brought in days gone by
from Pagan temples, there are, as in all these old Coptic churches, high
transverse wooden partitions, elaborately wrought in the Arab fashion,
which divide it into three sections: the first, into which one comes
on entering the church, is allotted to the women, the second is for
the baptistery, and the third, at the end adjoining the iconostasis, is
reserved for the men.

These women who are gathered this morning in their apportioned space--so
much at home there with their suckling little ones--wear, almost all of
them, the long black silk veils of former days. In their harmonious and
endlessly restless groups, the gowns _a la franque_ and the poor hats
of carnival are still the exception. The congregation, as a whole,
preserves almost intact its naive, old-time flavour.

And there is movement too, beyond, in the compartment of the men, which
is bounded at the farther end by the iconostasis--a thousand-year-old
wall decorated with inlaid cedarwood and ivory of precious antique
workmanship, and adorned with strange old icons, blackened by time. It
is behind this wall--pierced by several doorways--that mass is now being
said. From this last sanctuary shut off thus from the people comes the
vague sound of singing; from time to time a priest raises a faded silk
curtain and from the threshold makes the sign of blessing. His vestments
are of gold, and he wears a golden crown, but the humble faithful speak
to him freely, and even touch his gorgeous garments, that might be those
of one of the Wise Kings. He smiles, and letting fall the curtain,
which covers the entrance to the tabernacle, disappears again into this
innocent mystery.

Even the least things here tell of decay. The flagstones, trodden by
the feet of numberless dead generations, are become uneven through the
settling of the soil. Everything is askew, bent, dusty and worn-out.
The daylight comes from above, through narrow barred windows. There is
a lack of air, so that one almost stifles. But though the sun does not
enter, a certain indefinable reflection from the whitened walls reminds