In the semi-dark church the tomb of Christ with a picture of the dead was installed according to custom, and the Psalm of the great Saturday, chanted over the representation, sounded like a funeral dirge.
The officiating priests came out of the sanctuary still robed in their black lenten vestments; they raised the tomb with the representation of our Lord, bore it into the sanctuary and closed the doors: they had laid the Lord in the grave.
The singers intoned the last verse of the Canticle:—
“When thou didst descend unto death, Eternal——”
Silence ensued.
Then suddenly the crowd began to sway and move as though hurriedly preparing for some event. The wax taper which each one bore was lighted from that of his neighbour. The Church was filled with a soft light, and in this luminous hush there was the expectation of great joy.
Alexis lighted his candle at that of his neighbour, Count Peter Andreitch Tolstoi—his Judas Iscariot. The delicate light brought back to him all that he used to feel at the early Easter Mass; but he thrust these feelings aside, he no longer cared to recall them, he even dreaded them. Gazing absently at Prince Ménshikoff’s back as he stood in front of him, he tried to fix his attention on how to avoid dropping some of the melted wax upon the gold embroideries of the Prince’s dress.
From behind the closed altar gates came the voice of the deacon:—
“Thy Resurrection, O Christ, our Saviour! is chanted by angels in heaven.”