For all answer a shrug of the shoulders, and the dim eyes looked into mine; complete resignation was what I read in their depths.
"What is the use of keeping a grave tidy if the priest of the village allows his oxen to graze about amidst the tombs?"
I looked at her in astonishment. "Could not such disorder be put a stop to?"
Again a shrug of the shoulders. "Who is there to put a stop to it? The cattle must have somewhere to feed!"
I saw that she considered it quite natural, and that which lay beneath the ground could verily be indifferent to those passing hoofs, as long as on Good Friday some one remembered to burn a taper over her heart!
On Good Friday night, long services are celebrated in every church or chapel in the land.
Full of mystical charm are those peasant gatherings round their humble houses of prayer. Men, women, and children flock together, each one bearing a light. Those who find no place within stand outside in patient crowds.
A lovely picture indeed.
From each church window the light streams forth, whilst weird chants float out to those waiting beyond. In front of the sanctuary hundreds of wavering little flames, lighting up the visages of those who, with ecstatic faces, are hearkening for sounds of the service that is being celebrated within.