ight of her cloudy chariot.

Abbe Mouret gazed at her. This was the hour when he most loved the
church. He forgot the woeful figure on the cross, the Victim bedaubed
with carmine and ochre, who gasped out His life behind him, in the
chapel of the Dead. His thoughts were no longer distracted by the garish
light from the windows, by the gayness of morning coming in with the
sun, by the irruption of outdoor life--the sparrows and the boughs
invading the nave through the shattered panes. At that hour of night
Nature was dead; shadows hung the whitewashed walls with crape; a chill
fell upon his shoulders like a salutary penance-shirt. He could now
wholly surrender himself to the supremest love, without fear of any
flickering ray of light, any caressing breeze or scent, any buzzing of
an insect's wing disturbing him amidst the delight of loving. Never
had his morning mass afforded him the superhuman joys of his nightly
prayers.

With quivering lips Abbe Mouret now gazed at the tall Virgin. He
could see her coming towards him from the depths of her green bower in
ever-increasing splendour. No longer did a flood of moonlight seem to
float across the tree-tops. She seemed to him clothed with the sun; she
advanced majestically, glorious, colossal, and so all-powerful that he
was tempted at times to cast himself face downwards to shun the flaming
splendour of that gate opening into heaven. Then, amidst the adoration
of his whole being, which stayed his words upon his lips, he remembered
Brother Archangias's final rebuke, as he might have remembered words
of blasphemy. The Brother often reproved him for his devotion to the
Virgin, which he declared was veritable robbery of devotion due to
God. In the Brother's opinion it enervated the soul, put religion
into petticoats, created and fostered a state of sentimentalism quite
unworthy of the strong. He bore the Virgin a grudge for her womanhood,
her beauty, her maternity; he was ever on his guard against her,
possessed by a covert fear of feeling tempted by her gracious mien, of
succumbing to her seductive sweetness. 'She will lead you far!' he had
cried one day to the young priest, for in her he saw the commencement
of human passion. From contemplating her one might glide to delight in
lovely chestnut hair, in large bright eyes, and the mystery of garments
falling from neck to toes. His was the blunt rebellion of a saint who
roughly parted the Mother from the Son, asking as He did: '