For a few moments his countenance showed no emotion. Then the features

broke into an expression of indescribable malice. With gestures of

demoniac triumph he mocked the solemnity of the bier, and showered

upon it every scornful indignity that the human face can convey.

I admit that I was spellbound with astonishment and horror. I ought to

have seized the author of the infamous sacrilege--I ought, at any

rate, to have called to the priest--but I could do neither. I trembled

before this mysterious man. My frame literally shook. I knew what fear

was. I was a coward.

At length he turned away, casting at me as he did so one indefinable

look, and with slow dignity passed again down the length of the nave

and disappeared. Then, and not till then, I found my voice and my

courage. I pulled the priest by the sleeve of his cassock.

"Some one has just been in the cathedral," I said huskily. And I told

him what I had seen.

"Impossible! Retro me, Sathanas! It was imagination."

His tone was dry, harsh.

"No, no," I said eagerly. "I assure you...."

He smiled incredulously, and repeated the word "Imagination!"

But I well knew that it was not imagination, that I had actually seen

this man enter and go forth.




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