turning his head to look, that all the fellows were looking after him
as they went filing by.

He passed along the narrow dark corridor, passing little doors that
were the doors of the rooms of the community. He peered in front of him
and right and left through the gloom and thought that those must be
portraits. It was dark and silent and his eyes were weak and tired with
tears so that he could not see. But he thought they were the portraits
of the saints and great men of the order who were looking down on him
silently as he passed: saint Ignatius Loyola holding an open book and
pointing to the words AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM in it; saint Francis
Xavier pointing to his chest; Lorenzo Ricci with his berretta on his
head like one of the prefects of the lines, the three patrons of holy
youth--saint Stanislaus Kostka, saint Aloysius Gonzago, and Blessed
John Berchmans, all with young faces because they died when they were
young, and Father Peter Kenny sitting in a chair wrapped in a big
cloak.

He came out on the landing above the entrance hall and looked about
him. That was where Hamilton Rowan had passed and the marks of the
soldiers' slugs were there. And it was there that the old servants had
seen the ghost in the white cloak of a marshal.

An old servant was sweeping at the end of the landing. He asked him
where was the rector's room and the old servant pointed to the door at
the far end and looked after him as he went on to it and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly and his heart jumped
when he heard a muffled voice say: