them, the long black silk veils of former days. In their harmonious and
endlessly restless groups, the gowns _a la franque_ and the poor hats
of carnival are still the exception. The congregation, as a whole,
preserves almost intact its naïve, old-time flavour.

And there is movement too, beyond, in the compartment of the men, which
is bounded at the farther end by the iconostasis--a thousand-year-old
wall decorated with inlaid cedarwood and ivory of precious antique
workmanship, and adorned with strange old icons, blackened by time. It
is behind this wall--pierced by several doorways--that mass is now being
said. From this last sanctuary shut off thus from the people comes the
vague sound of singing; from time to time a priest raises a faded silk
curtain and from the threshold makes the sign of blessing. His vestments
are of gold, and he wears a golden crown, but the humble faithful speak
to him freely, and even touch his gorgeous garments, that might be those
of one of the Wise Kings. He smiles, and letting fall the curtain,
which covers the entrance to the tabernacle, disappears again into this
innocent mystery.

Even the least things here tell of decay. The flagstones, trodden by
the feet of numberless dead generations, are become uneven through the
settling of the soil. Everything is askew, bent, dusty and worn-out.
The daylight comes from above, through narrow barred windows. There is
a lack of air, so that one almost stifles. But though the sun does not
enter, a certain indefinable reflection from the whitened walls reminds
us that outside there is a flaming, resplendent Eastern spring.

In this, the old grandfather, as it were, of churches, filled now with
a cloud of odorous smoke, what one hears, more even than the chanting
of the mass, is the ceaseless movement, the pious agitation of the