me, and gave me strength. 'Brother,' I said, 'we are weak. If we saw
heaven opened, could we trust to our vision now? Our imaginations are
masters of us. So far as mortal eye can see, we are alone in Semur. Have
you forgotten your psalm, and how you sustained us at the first? And
now, your Cathedral is open to you, my brother. _Lætatus sum_,' I said.
It was an inspiration from above, and no thought of mine; for it is well
known, that though deeply respectful, I have never professed religion.
With one impulse we turned, we went together, as in a procession, across
the silent place, and up the great steps. We said not a word to each
other of what we meant to do. All was fair and silent in the holy place;
a breath of incense still in the air; a murmur of psalms (as one could
imagine) far up in the high roof. There I served, while he said his
mass. It was for my friend that this impulse came to my mind; but I was
rewarded. The days of my childhood seemed to come back to me. All
trouble, and care, and mystery, and pain, seemed left behind. All I
could see was the glimmer on the altar of the great candle-sticks, the
sacred pyx in its shrine, the chalice, and the book. I was again an
_enfant de choeur_ robed in white, like the angels, no doubt, no
disquiet in my soul--and my father kneeling behind among the faithful,
bowing his head, with a sweetness which I too knew, being a father,
because it was his child that tinkled the bell and swung the censer.
Never since those days have I served the mass. My heart grew soft within
me as the heart of a little child. The voice of M. le Curé was full of
tears--it swelled out into the air and filled the vacant place. I knelt
behind him on the steps of the altar and wept.

Then there came a sound that made our hearts leap in our bosoms. His
voice wavered as if it had been struck by a strong wind; but he was a
brave man, and he went on. It was the bells of the Cathedral that pealed
out over our heads. In the midst of the office, while we knelt all