WHITEWASH
surf. Again the tenor of the priest, again the deep, growling bass of the crowd. The mass continued, and the memory of it remained with Victoria all her life. The smell of incense, the thin, penetrating voice, the wave thunder of the litanies. A vision of weird, illuminated faces and dimly revealed arches, of a pale, far-off, star-sprinkled sky, against which the martyred Christ silhouetted, grimly rigid. The chimes rang out,—paused,—and the single bourdon throbbed the hour. Victoria, to her amazement, counted twelve. Where had the time gone? It seemed hardly an hour since she slipped into the church. There was no apparent diminution of the crowd, and the enthusiasm continued at white heat. She became suddenly conscious that she was weary and footsore. Her excited nerves relaxed almost to the crying point. It was as if the stroke of midnight had destroyed the enchantment.
Too tired to take any further interest in her surroundings, her feet and thoughts turned gratefully hotelwards. The narrow cot at her journey s end suddenly absorbed all her ambitions and hopes. With lagging steps she made her way
