They obeyed his gesture, and went softly into the little sacred place, now glowing with light, and redolent of sweet perfume, the natural incense wafted on the air from the many flowers which were clustered in every nook and corner. Seating themselves quietly on a wooden bench at the end of the building, they watched the proceedings in mingled wonder and reverence,—for such a religious service as this they had assuredly never witnessed. There was no altar,—only an arched recess, wherein stood a large, roughly-carved wooden cross, the base of which was entirely surrounded with the rarest flowers. Through the stained-glass window behind, the warm afternoon light streamed gloriously,—it fell upon the wooden beams of the Sign of Salvation, with a rose and purple radiance like that of newly-kindled fire,—and as the few monks gathered together and knelt before it in silent prayer, the scene was strangely impressive, though the surroundings were so simple. And when, through the deep stillness an organ-chord broke grandly like a wave from the sea, and the voice of Féraz, deep, rich, and pathetic exclaimed as it were, in song,
“Quare tristis es anima mea?
Quare conturbas me?”
giving the reply in still sweeter accents,
“Spera in Deo!”
then Irene Vassilius sank on her knees and hid her face in her clasped hands, her whole soul shaken by emotion and uplifted to heaven by the magic of divinest harmony. Strathlea looked at her slight kneeling figure and his heart beat passionately,—he bent his head too, close beside hers, partly out of a devotional sense, partly perhaps to have a nearer glimpse of the lovely fair hair that clustered in such tempting little ripples and curls on the back of her slim white neck. The monks, prostrating themselves before the Cross, murmured together some indistinct orisons for a few minutes,—then came a pause,—and once more the voice of Féraz rang out in soft warm vibrating notes of melody;—the words he sang were his own, and fell distinctly on the ears as roundly and perfectly as the chime of a true-toned bell—
O hear ye not the voice of the Belovëd?
Through golden seas of starry light it falls,
And like a summons in the night it calls,
Saying,—“Lost children of the Father’s House