The Cathedral was crammed to suffocation when Marcos and his father entered by this door.  At the foot of the shallow steps descending from the porch to the floor of the Cathedral, Sor Teresa’s white cap rose above the heads of the people.  Here and there a nun’s cap or the blue veil of a nursing sister showed itself amidst the black mantillas.  Here and there the white head of some old man made its mark among the sunburnt faces.  For there were as many men as women present.  The majority of them looked about them as at a show, but all were silent and respectful.  All made room readily enough for any who wished to kneel.  There was no pushing, no impatience.  All were polite and forbearing.

The Archbishop’s procession had already left the door of the choir, and was moving slowly round the building.  It was preceded by a chorister and a boy, who sang in unison with a strange, uncomfortable echo in the roof.  Immediately on their heels followed a man in his usual outdoor clothes, who accompanied them on a haut-boy with queer, snorting notes, and nodded to his friends as he perceived their faces dimly looming in the light of the flickering candles carried by acolytes behind him.

They stopped at intervals and sang a verse.  Then the organ, far above their heads, rolled in its solemn notes, and the whole choir broke into song as they moved on.

The Archbishop, preceded by the Host borne aloft beneath a silken canopy, wore a long red silk robe, of which the train was carried by two careless acolytes, a red silk biretta and red gloves.

As the Host passed the people knelt and rose, and knelt again as the Archbishop came—­a sort of human tide, rising and kneeling and rising again, to dust their knees and stare about them, which was not without a symbolical meaning for those who know the history of the Church in Latin countries.

The face of the Archbishop struck a sudden and startling note of sincerity as he passed on with upheld hand and eyes turning from side to side with a luminous look of love and tenderness as he silently invoked God’s blessing on these his people.  He passed on, leaving in some doubting hearts, perhaps, the knowledge that amid much that was mistaken, and tawdry and superstitious and evil, here at all events was one good man.

Immediately behind him, came the beadle in vestments and a long flaxen wig ill-combed, put on all awry, making room with his staff and hitting the people if they would not leave off praying and get out of the way.

Then followed the choir—­a living study in evil countenances—­ perfunctory, careless, snuff-blown and ill-shaven, with cold hard faces like Inquisitors.

All the while the great bell was booming overhead, and the whole atmosphere seemed to vibrate with sound and emotion.  It was moving and impressive, especially for those who think that the Almighty is better pleased with abject abasement than a plain common-sense endeavour to do better, and will accept a long tale of public penance before the record of simple daily duties honestly performed.