The old lay-sister seized her wallet and pulled out the bag of peas.

Below, the heavy door swung back upon its hinges.

Mary Antony dropped upon her knees to the right of the steps, her hands
hidden beneath her scapulary, her eyes bent in lowly reverence upon the
sunlit flagstones, her lips mumbling chance sentences from the Psalter.

The measured sound of softly moving feet drew near, slightly shuffling
as they reached the steps and began to mount, up from the mile-long
darkness, into the sunset light.

First to appear was a young lay-sister, carrying a lantern. Hastening
up the steps, she extinguished the flame, grown sickly in the sunshine,
placed the lantern in a niche, and, dropping upon her knees, opposite
old Mary Antony, sought to join in the latter's pious recitations.

"_Adhaesit pavimento anima mea_," chanted Mary Antony. "Wherefore are
the holy Ladies late to-day?"

"One fell to weeping in the darkness," intoned the young lay-sister,
"whereupon Mother Sub-Prioress caused all to stand still while she
strove, by the light of my lantern held high, to discover who had burst
forth with a sob. None shewing traces of tears, she gave me back the
lantern, herself walking last in the line, as all moved on."

"_Convertentur ad vesperam_, and the devil catch the hindmost," chanted
Mary Antony, with fervour.