leaving no trace of its former brilliancy but a small bright flame that gradually took the shape of a seven-pointed Star which sparkled through the gloom like a suspended ruby.  The chapel was left almost in complete darkness—­he could scarcely discern even the white figures of the kneeling worshippers,—­a haunting sense of the Supernatural seemed to permeate that deep hush and dense shadow,—­and notwithstanding his habitual tendency to despise all religious ceremonies, there was something novel and strange about this one which exercised a peculiar influence upon his imagination.  A sudden odd fancy possessed him that there were others present besides himself and the brethren,—­but who these “others” were, he could not determine.  It was an altogether uncanny, uncomfortable impression—­yet it was very strong upon him—­and he breathed a sigh of intense relief when he heard the soft melody of the organ once more, and saw the oaken doors of the grotto swing wide open to admit a flood of cheerful light from the outer passage.  The vespers were over,—­the monks rose and paced forth two by two, not with bent heads and downcast eyes as though affecting an abased humility, but with the free and stately bearing of kings returning from some high conquest.  Drawing a little further back into his retired corner, he watched them pass, and was forced to admit to himself that he had seldom or never seen finer types of splendid, healthful, and vigorous manhood at its best and brightest.  As noble specimens of the human race alone they were well worth looking at,—­they might have been warriors, princes, emperors, he thought—­anything but monks.  Yet monks they were, and followers of that Christian creed he so specially condemned,—­for each one wore on his breast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a jewelled star.

“Cross and Star!” he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and singular decoration, “an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose, meaning ... what?  Salvation and Immortality?  Alas, they are poor, witless builders on shifting sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two empty words, signifying nothing!  Do they, can they honestly believe in God, I wonder? or are they only acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith?”

And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled figures went by—­ten had already left the chapel.  Two more passed, then other two, and last of all came one alone—­one who walked slowly, with a dreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought.  The light from the open door streamed fully upon him as he advanced—­it was the monk who had recited the Seven Glorias.  The stranger no sooner beheld him than he instantly stepped forward and touched him on the arm.

“Pardon!” he said hastily in English, “I think I am not mistaken—­ your name is, or used to be Heliobas?”

The monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet graceful salutation, and smiled.