Nevertheless, obediently enough they made their way as the bell clanged, and the throng filed into their places most reverently.  It was a pleasant sight.  I came into rank unobtrusively at the back, among the rustling and nudging lay brethren.  In other circumstances it would have amused me to see the grave faces they turned towards the altar, and to hear all the while the confused scuffling as they trod on each other’s toes, trying whose skin was the tenderest or whose sandal soles were the thickest.  One or two even tried conclusions with me, but once only.  For the first who adventured got a stamp from my riding-boot which caused him to squeal out like a stuck pig, and but for the waking thunder of the organ might have gotten him a month’s penance in addition.  So after that my toes were left severely alone among the lay brethren.

Then came the high procession, at which the monks and all stood up.  In front there were the incense-bearers and acolytes, then officers whose names, not being convent-bred nor yet greatly given to church-craft, I did not know.  Then after them came two men who walked together, at the sight of whom the’ jaws of all the monks dropped, and they stood so infinitely astonished that no power was left in them.  For, instead of one, two mitred abbots entered in full canonical attire—­golden mitre and green, golden-headed staff, red embroidered robes lined with green.  These two paced solemnly in abreast, and sat down upon twin thrones.

“The Abbot of St. Omer!” whispered one of the lay brothers, naming one of the most famous abbeys in Europe, and the word flew round like lightning.  Whether he had been instructed or not what to say I do not know.  But at all events I saw the tidings run round the circle of the choir, overleap the boundary stall, and even reach the officiating priests, who inclined an eager ear to catch it, and passed the word one to another in the intervals of the chanted sentences.

Then the news was drowned in the thunder of the anthem, and the organ dominating all.  Everything was strange to me, but most strange the practice of the lay brothers, who chanted bravely indeed in tune, but who (for the words set in the chorals) substituted other sentiments of a kind not usually found in service-books.

“He looks a stout and be-e-e-fy o-o-old fel-low, this A-a-a-bot of St. Omer, don’t you think?  Glory, glo-o-ry.  Takes his meals well, likes his qu-a-a-art of Rhenish or his Burgundy to swell his jolly paunch.  A-a-a-men!”

Or, as it might be:  “Are you coming—­are you coming o-o-out to-night?  There will be-ee, good compan-ee-ee.  Dancing and deray—­lots of pretty girls; no proud churls.  Ten by the clock, when the doors all lock.  As it was in the beginning, is now, ever shall be, world without end, A-a-a-men!”