As soon as the procession of choir-boys and priests came within sight of the altar, the sacristan stepped hastily out of line and went forward to the stranger, to assure him that, possibly from too deep absorption in devotion, or from lack of familiarity with ecclesiastical ceremony, he was guilty of intrusion.
He touched the man’s shoulder, but the man did not stir. In the breathless stillness that followed, while everyone expectantly awaited the outcome, a deep, heartrending sob was heard.
“A penitent!” “A drunken man!” “A convert!” were some of the whispered comments of the people.
The perplexed sacristan turned round, and beckoned Father Canisius, who, with impressive bearing, stepped up in his white, gold-threaded garb, as imposingly as a full-sailed frigate moves.
“Your place is not here,” said the priest, in his deep voice. He spoke kindly, and not particularly loudly. “Go to the back of the church.”
There was no reply, and the man did not move; yet, in the still more profound silence, his weeping was so audible that many people shuddered.
“Do you not hear me?” said the priest, raising his voice a little, and speaking with some impatience. “It is well that you are repentant, but only the consecrated belong here—not penitents.”
So saying, he grasped the shoulder of the stranger with his large, strong hand.
Then, slowly, very slowly, the kneeling man raised his head from his arms, and turned his face toward the priest.
What followed, perhaps each one of the hundreds of witnesses would tell differently; and of those who heard about it later, each had a different idea. But I am going to tell you what Johannes saw and heard—heard quite as clearly as you have seen and heard the members of your own household, today.