The Sisters kneeling on each side of the altar, regardless of the
deadly chill from the wet brick floor, were engaged in prayer, while
the priest, arrayed in pontifical vestments, brought out a golden
chalice set with gems; doubtless one of the sacred vessels saved from
the pillage of the Abbaye de Chelles. Beside a ciborium, the gift of
royal munificence, the wine and water for the holy sacrifice of the
mass stood ready in two glasses such as could scarcely be found in the
meanest tavern. For want of a missal, the priest had laid his breviary
on the altar, and a common earthenware plate was set for the washing
of hands that were pure and undefiled with blood. It was all so
infinitely great, yet so little, poverty-stricken yet noble, a
mingling of sacred and profane.

The stranger came forward reverently to kneel between the two nuns.
But the priest had tied crape round the chalice of the crucifix,
having no other way of marking the mass as a funeral service; it was
as if God himself had been in mourning. The man suddenly noticed this,
and the sight appeared to call up some overwhelming memory, for great
drops of sweat stood out on his broad forehead.

Then the four silent actors in the scene looked mysteriously at one
another; and their souls in emulation seemed to stir and communicate
the thoughts within them until all were melted into one feeling of awe
and pity. It seemed to them that the royal martyr whose remains had
been consumed with quicklime, had been called up by their yearning and
now stood, a shadow in their midst, in all the majesty of a king. They
were celebrating an anniversary service for the dead whose body lay
elsewhere. Under the disjointed laths and tiles, four Christians were
holding a funeral service without a coffin, and putting up prayers to
God for the soul of a King of France. No devotion could be purer than