carving like lace in the stonework. Softly swung leather doors shut the
sanctuary from the outer world. The fretted gold-and-blue-and-scarlet
ceiling stretched away miles, as it were, in the space above them, and
rich carvings in dark, costly wood met the wonderful frescoes at lofty
heights. The carpets were soft, and the pews were upholstered in tones
to match. A great silence brooded over the place, making itself felt
above and beneath the swelling tones of the wonderful organ. People trod
the aisles softly, like puppets playing each his part. They bent in form
of prayer for a moment and settled into silence. The minister came
stiffly into the pulpit, casting a furtive eye about his congregation.

They noticed almost at once that the most unpopular professor in the
university was acting as usher on the other side of the church. Tennelly
frowned and looked at Courtland, who sat watching the aforesaid usher as
he showed people to their seats, wondering if that man had a thing he
called religion, and if he was in any way related to Stephen Marshall's
Christ. This was a voyage of discovery for Courtland, this visit to a
Christian church. He had scarcely been to religious services since he
entered the university. He had considered them a waste of time. Now he
had come to see if there was really anything in them. It did not occur
to him that they had a real connection with those verses he had read in
the Bible about "doing the will," or that the going or staying away from
them was in any wise obligatory upon one who had allied himself with
Christ. The church stood to him as to many other young pagans such as he
was, for a man-made institution, to be attended or not as one chose.

The music was not uplifting. It was well done by a paid choir, who had
good voices and sang wonderful music, but they had no heart in their
singing. The congregation attempted no more than a murmur of the hymns.
There was not a large congregation.