that God himself was averse from the act that he was on
the point of committing in this church that confronted Islam, that God
himself shuddered as surely even He, the Creator, must shudder at some
of the actions of his creatures. And this feeling added immensely to the
distress of the priest's mind. In performing this ceremony he now
had the dreadful sensation that he was putting himself into direct
antagonism with God. His instinctive horror of Androvsky had never been
so great as it was to-day. In vain he had striven to conquer it, to draw
near to this man who roused all the repulsion of his nature. His efforts
had been useless. He had prayed to be given the sympathy for this man
that the true Christian ought to feel towards every human being, even
the most degraded. But he felt that his prayers had not been answered.
With every day his antipathy for Androvsky increased. Yet he was
entirely unable to ground it upon any definite fact in Androvsky's
character. He did not know that character. The man was as much a mystery
to him as on the day when they first met. And to this living mystery
from which his soul recoiled he was about to consign, with all the
beautiful and solemn blessings of his Church, a woman whose character
he respected, whose innate purity, strength and nobility he had quickly
divined, and no less quickly learned to love.

It was a bitter, even a horrible, moment to him.

The little acolyte, a French boy, son of the postmaster of Beni-Mora,
was startled by the sight of the Father's face when he opened the
sacristy door. He had never before seen such an expression of almost
harsh pain in those usually kind eyes, and he drew back from the
threshold like one afraid. His movement recalled the priest to a sharp
consciousness of the necessities of the moment, and with a strong effort
he conquered his pain sufficiently to conceal all outward expression of
it. He smiled gently at the little boy and said:

"Is it time?"

The child looked reassured.

"Yes, Father."

He came into the sacristy and went towards the cupboard where the
vestments were kept, passing the silver crucifix. As he did so he
glanced at it. He opened the cupboard, then stood for a moment and again
turned his eyes to the Christ. The Father watched him.

"What are you looking at, Paul?" he asked.

"Nothing, Father," the boy replied, with a sudden expression of
reluctance that was almost obstinate.

And he began to take the priest's