s in the discomfort of the shuddering
fears that surge up within us, and that find expression physically in a
craving for air, and in that peculiar condition when the head feels as
if it were empty, as if the brain had ceased to act, and all vitality
was driven back on the heart, which swells to choking; when it seems, in
the spiritual sense, that as energy returns so far as to allow of
self-command once more, of introspection, we peer down in appalling
silence into a black void.

He painfully rose and returned to his place, not without stumbling.
Never, not even at Chartres, had he been able to hinder the torpor that
overpowered him at the moment of receiving the Sacrament. His powers
were benumbed, his faculties arrested.

In Paris, at the core of his soul, which seemed rolled up in itself like
a chrysalis, there had always been a sort of restraint, an awkwardness
in waiting, and in approaching Christ, and then an apathy which nothing
could shake off. And this state was prolonged in a sort of cold,
enveloping mist, or rather in a vacuum all round the soul, deserted and
swooning on its couch.

At Chartres this state of collapse was still present, but some indulgent
tenderness presently enwrapped and warmed the spirit. The soul as it
recovered was no longer alone; it was encouraged and perceptibly helped
by the Virgin, who revived it. And this impression, peculiar to this
crypt, permeated the body too; it was no longer a feeling of suffocation
for lack of air; on the contrary, it was the oppression of inflation, of
over-fulness, which would be mitigated by degrees, allowing of easy
breathing at last.

Durtal, comforted and relieved, rose to go. By this time the crypt had
become a little lighter from the growing dawn; the passages, ending in
altars backing against the windows, were still dark, as a result of the
ground plan, but in the perspective of each a moving gold cross was to
be seen almost distinctly, rising and falling with a priest's back,
between two pale stars twinkling one on each side above the tabernacle;
while a third, lower and with redder flame, lighted up the book and the
white napery.

Durtal wandered away to meditate in the Bishop's garden, where he had
permission to walk whenever he pleased.

The garden was perfectly still, with tomb-like avenues, pollard poplars,
and trampled lawns--half dead. There was not a flower, for the Cathedral
killed everything under its shadow. Its vast deserted apse