Then he saw that he was in a vast interior, Doric in architecture,
severe and simple. It was in the form of a Latin cross, with fluted
columns dividing the aisles from the nave. Above him rose a noble dome.

He could make out nothing more for the present. It was very still, very
imposing, and at another time he would have been awed, but now he had
found sanctuary. The cold and the snow were shut out and a grateful
warmth took their place. He walked down one of the aisles, careful that
his footsteps should make no sound. He saw that there were rows of
chapels, seven on either side of the church. It occurred to him that he
would be safer in one of these rooms and he chose that which seemed to
be used the least.

While on this search he passed the main altar in the center of the
building. He noticed above the stalls a picture of the Virgin. He was a
Protestant, but when he saw it he crossed himself devoutly. Was not her
church giving him shelter and refuge from his enemies? He also passed
the Altar of the Kings, beneath which now lie the heads of great
Mexicans who secured the independence of their country from Spain. He
looked a little at these before he entered the chapel of his choice.

It was a small room, lighted scarcely at all by a narrow window, and it
contained a few straight wooden pews one of which had been turned about
facing the wall. He lay down in his pew, and, even in daylight, he would
have been hidden from anyone a yard away. The hard wood was soft to him.
He put his cap under his head and stretched himself out. Then, without
will, he relaxed completely. Nature could stand no more. His eyes closed
and he floated off into the far and happy region of sleep.