This church was an old one, a very old one. Its style was not very
well defined, for it had no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed,
rebuilt and repaired by many different generations. But those who
preserved it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering
which disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine large
stones, on which time had left its melancholy impress. There was no
grotesque painting on them to mar their quiet beauty, and the dim
light that filtered through at that early hour gave them a vague soft
glow.

No pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The "Stations of the
Cross" were the only adornment, and they were so simple and childish
in their execution that they were no doubt the work of some rustic
artist. And even this added a touching note to a harmonious whole.

But my attention was attracted by a slight noise, a kind of soft and
monotonous murmur, coming from the altar. The choir was almost in
darkness, but I could distinguish the six stars of the lighted
candles. In front of the tabernacle was standing a large white shadowy
form, almost motionless and like a phantom. At the bottom of the steps
another form was kneeling, bowed down towards the floor; it did not
stir as I approached. I went towards the choir on tip-toe, very
cautiously. I felt that I, a profane person, was committing a
sacrilege by coming to disturb those two men praying there all alone
in the gloom of that sad morning. A deep feeling of emotion passed
through me, and I felt so insignificant in their presence and in the
mysterious atmosphere of the place that I knelt down humbly, almost
timidly, in the shadow of one of the great pillars near the altar.

Then I could distinguish my fellow-worshippers better. A priest was