My father once told me that it had been painted by some great Spanish artist. The Virgin and her Babe were the central figures. She had a sad, grieved expression in her dark eyes, and I had a fancy that she was mourning over the use that had been made of her name. Certainly I think that gentle, lowly woman could hardly be happy in heaven itself if she knew how she was treated here on earth.
The chancel was surrounded by a row of carved niches or stalls with seats in them. I counted them from the left hand side of the altar, and putting my hand under the seat of the fourth I found and slightly pressed the button my father had told me of. It moved in my fingers, but I dared not open it.
"I suppose it was by this secret way that they brought the wife of the white chevalier when they buried her alive in the vault below," I thought.
And then, as a sound behind me made me turn with a thrill, I almost expected to see the poor murdered lady's ghost arise before me.
But it was only one of our numerous family of cats which had chosen this place for her young progeny.
If I had seen the ghost, however, I do not believe I should have blanched: I was too highly wrought up by enthusiasm and the kind of nervous excitement which has always served me in place of courage. I ascended the rickety stairs into the music loft, touched the yellow keys of the useless organ, and leaning over the ledge, tried to think how the place must have looked when it was full of kneeling worshippers. Then, being warned by the deepening shadows of the lateness of the hour, I went into the house to my supper.
[CHAPTER V.]
GUESTS AT THE TOUR.