THE AMERICAN
met his view in the manner of some blank stiff party to a formal introduction. A robust lay sister with a cheerful complexion emerged from a porter's lodge and, on his stating his errand, pointed to the open door of the chapel, an edifice which occupied the right side of the court and was preceded by a high flight of steps. Newman ascended the steps and immediately entered the open door. Service had not yet begun; the interior was dimly lighted and it was some moments before he could distinguish features. Then he saw the scene divided by a large close iron screen into two unequal parts. The altar was on the hither side of the screen, and between it and the entrance were disposed several benches and chairs. Three or four of these were occupied by vague, motionless figures—figures he presently perceived to be women deeply absorbed in their devotion. The place seemed to Newman very cold; the smell of the incense itself was cold. Mixed with this impression was a twinkle of tapers and here and there a glow of coloured glass. He seated himself; the praying women kept still, kept their backs turned. He saw they were visitors like himself, and he would have liked to see their faces; for he believed that they were the mourning mothers and sisters of other women who had had the same pitiless courage as the person in whom he was interested. But they were better off than he, for they at least shared the faith to which the others had sacrificed themselves. Three or four persons came in, two of them gentlemen important and mature. Every one was very quiet, with a perverse effect of studied submission. He fastened his
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