“Brent,”—­he began, huskily—­“I am ashamed that you should see me like this—–­so weak—–­”

“A weakness that will make you stronger by and by, John!” and the Bishop linked a friendly arm within his own—­“Come into the church with me, will you?  I feel the influence of your enshrined Saint upon me!  Let us wait for news, good or bad, at the altar,—­and while waiting, we will pray.  Do you remember what I said to you when you came to see me last summer?  ’Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, we will see what your Saint can do for us’?  Come!”

Without a word of demur, John obeyed.  They passed out of the house together and took the private by-path to the church.  It was then about noon, and the sun shone through a soft mist that threatened rain without permitting it to fall.  The faint piping of a thrush in the near distance suggested the music of the coming Spring, and the delicate odour of plant-life pushing its way through the earth gave a pungent freshness to the quiet air.  Arriving at the beautiful little sanctuary, they entered it by the vestry, though the public door stood open according to invariable custom.  A singularly brilliant glare of luminance reflected from the plain clear glass that filled the apertures of the rose-window above the altar, struck aslant on the old-world sarcophagus which doubtless contained the remains of one who, all ‘miraculous’ attributes apart, had nobly lived and bravely died,—­and as the Bishop moved reverently round it to the front of the altar-rails, his eyes were uplifted and full of spiritual rapture.

“Kneel here with me, John!” he said—­“And with all our hearts and all our minds, let us pray to God for the life of the beloved woman whom God has given you,—­given, surely, not to take away again, but to be more completely made your own!  Let us pray, as the faithful servants of Christ prayed in the early days of the Church,—­not hesitatingly, not doubtingly, not fearingly!—­but believing and making sure that our prayers will, if good for us, be granted!”

They knelt together.  Walden, folding his arms on the altar-rails, hid his face,—­but the Bishop, clasping his hands and fixing his eyes on the word ‘Resurget’ that flashed out of the worn alabaster—­ wherein the unknown ‘Saint’ reposed, seemed to gather to himself all the sunlight that poured through the window above him, and to exhale from his own slight worn frame something like the mystic halo of glory pictured round the figure of an apostle or evangelist.

The minutes slowly ebbed away.  The church clock chimed the half-hour after noon—­and they remained absorbed in a trance of speechless, passionate prayer.  They were unaware that some of Walden’s parishioners, moved by the same idea of praying for Maryllia while she was undergoing the operation which was to save or slay, had come to the church also for that purpose, but were brought to a pause on the threshold of the building by the sight they saw within.