Stations of the Cross, fourteen coarsely coloured prints in narrow black
frames, bespeckled the staring whiteness of the walls with the yellow,
blue, and scarlet of scenes from the Passion.

'_Deo Gratias_,' stuttered out Vincent at the end of the Epistle.

The mystery of love, the immolation of the Holy Victim, was about to
begin. The server took the Missal and bore it to the left, or
Gospel-side, of the altar, taking care not to touch the pages of the
book. Each time he passed before the tabernacle he made a genuflexion
slantwise, which threw him all askew. Returning to the right-hand side
once more, he stood upright with crossed arms during the reading of the
Gospel. The priest, after making the sign of the cross upon the Missal,
next crossed himself: first upon his forehead--to declare that he would
never blush for the divine word; then on his mouth--to show his
unchanging readiness to confess his faith; and finally on his heart--to
mark that it belonged to God alone.

'_Dominus vobiscum_,' said he, turning round and facing the cold white
church.

'_Et cum spirits tuo_,' answered Vincent, who once more was on his
knees.

The Offertory having been recited, the priest uncovered the chalice. For
a moment he held before his breast the paten containing the host, which
he offered up to God, for himself, for those present, and for all the
faithful, living and dead. Then, slipping it on to the edge of the
corporal without touching it with his fingers, he took up the chalice
and carefully wiped it with the purificator. Vincent had in the