I, involuntarily, with the other worshipers, knelt on the stone floor and
bowed my head in silent reverie.

Suddenly, I was aroused by a crashing noise at my elbow, and glancing
round saw that an old man near me had merely dropped his cane. A heavy
cudgel it was that falling on the stone flagging sent a thundering
reverberation through the vaulted chambers.

The worshipers were slipping out, one by one, and soon no one was left but
the old man of the cudgel and myself. He wore wooden shoes, and was
holding the cordwood fast between his knees, rolling his hat nervously in
his big hands. "He's a stranger, too," I said to myself; "he is the man
who owns the rusty dog of Flanders, and he is waiting to give the priest
some message!"

I leaned over towards my neighbor and asked, "The priest--what is his
name?"

"Father Francis, Monsieur!" and the old man swayed back and forward in his
seat as if moved by some inward emotion, still fingering his hat.

Just then the priest came out from behind the altar, wearing a black robe
instead of the white one. He moved down with a sort of quiet majesty
straight towards us. We arose as one man; it was as though some one had
pressed a button.

Father Francis walked by me, bowing slightly, and shook hands with my old
neighbor. They stood talking in an undertone.

A last struggling ray of light from the dying sun came in over the chancel