There was unusual rejoicing
to-night, for it was a _conge_ in honor of Saint Catherine, but the
joyful confusion seemed only to throw our mutual sadness into more
pronounced relief, and for awhile we stood in silence, hand in hand,
half-shrouded in the darkness of the outer doorway. Then Hortense
said, in a tremulous whisper.
"Let us go into the chapel."
I took her arm tenderly, and we passed quietly along the dimly lit
corridor that led into the main portion of the building. A single gas
jet burned in the large square hall outside. We hurried across it, for
the glare was unwelcome to the tear-stained faces of both, all was
silent and still as death. Hortense opened the chapel door
noiselessly, and we glided in. Darkness here too, and yet not
darkness, for great giant shadows leaped over the vacant pews, and
chased one another over the cold, white keys of the organ. The
sanctuary light was flickering fitfully in its crystal bowl, and
peopling the holy precincts with phantom worshippers. Gleams of
silvery moonlight flooded the farther end, and brought out to
advantage every hoary blade and tree and flower that lay upon the
glistening window panes. If we had needed inspiration from external
things at this moment, how easily we could have received it. But there
was not a fibre within us that was not already awake to such
soul-stirring influences. We went on tiptoe towards the altar-rail,
and knelt upon the topmost step.
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