fane, within which no taper hath gleamed since the old worship ceased,
showing that preparations are made for the last service. The organ, dumb
so long, breathes a low prelude. Sad is it to hear that knell--sad to
view those gloriously-dyed panes--and to think why the one rings and the
other is lighted up.

Word having gone forth of the midnight mass, all the ejected brethren
flock to the abbey. Some have toiled through miry and scarce passable
roads. Others have come down from the hills, and forded deep streams at
the hazard of life, rather than go round by the far-off bridge, and
arrive too late. Others, who conceive themselves in peril from the share
they have taken in the late insurrection, quit their secure retreats,
and expose themselves to capture. It may be a snare laid for them, but
they run the risk. Others, coming from a yet greater distance, beholding
the illuminated church from afar, and catching the sound of the bell
tolling at intervals, hurry on, and reach the gate breathless and
wellnigh exhausted. But no questions are asked. All who present
themselves in ecclesiastical habits are permitted to enter, and take
part in the procession forming in the cloister, or proceed at once to
the church, if they prefer it.

Dolefully sounds the bell. Barefooted brethren meet together,
sorrowfully salute each other, and form in a long line in the great area
of the cloisters. At their head are six monks bearing tall lighted
candles. After them come the quiristers, and then one carrying the Host,
between the incense-bearers. Next comes a youth holding the bell. Next
are placed the dignitaries of the church, the prior ranking first, and
the others standing two and two according to their degrees. Near the
entrance of the refectory, which occupies the whole south side of the
quadrangle, stand a band of halberdiers, whose torches cast a ruddy