past midnight when Patrasche traced it over the boundaries of the town and
into the narrow, tortuous, gloomy streets. It was all quite dark in the
town, save where some light gleamed ruddily through the crevices of
house-shutters, or some group went homeward with lanterns chanting
drinking-songs. The streets were all white with ice: the high walls and
roofs loomed black against them. There was scarce a sound save the riot of
the winds down the passages as they tossed the creaking signs and shook
the tall lamp-irons.

[Illustration: The portals of the cathedral were unclosed after the
Midnight Mass]

So many passers-by had trodden through and through the snow, so many
diverse paths had crossed and recrossed each other, that the dog had a
hard task to retain any hold on the track he followed. But he kept on his
way, though the cold pierced him to the bone, and the jagged ice cut his
feet, and the hunger in his body gnawed like a rat's teeth. He kept on his
way, a poor gaunt, shivering thing, and by long patience traced the steps
he loved into the very heart of the burgh and up to the steps of the great
cathedral.

"He is gone to the things that he loved," thought Patrasche: he could not
understand, but he was full of sorrow and of pity for the art-passion that
to him was so incomprehensible and yet so sacred.

The portals of the cathedral were unclosed after the midnight mass. Some
heedlessness in the custodians, too eager to go home and feast or sleep,
or too drowsy to know whether they turned the keys aright, had left one of
the doors unlocked. By that accident the foot-falls Patrasche sought had
passed through into the building, leaving the white marks of snow upon the