Oh, what inexpressible religious raptures were mine! What no gorgeous temple, nor pealing organ, nor white-robed minister had ever wrought for me was wrought in this barracklike room with its rude benches and wooden ark. "Children of the Palace" we sang, and as I strove to pick up the words I thought we were indeed sons of our Father who is in Heaven. CHILDREN OF THE PALACE Children of the Palace, haste-- All who yearn the bliss to taste Of the glorious Little-Faced, Where, within the King's house placed, Shines the sapphire throne enchased. Come, in joyful dance enlaced, Mock the cold and primly chaste. See no sullen nor straitlaced In our circle may be traced. Here with th' Ancient One embraced Inmost truth 'tis ours to taste, Outer husks are shred to waste. Children of the Palace, haste, With the glory to be graced, Come, behold the Little-Faced. We broke up some hours earlier than the previous evening, but I hurried away from my sauntering fellow-worshippers, not now because I was disgusted, but because I feared to be. I needed solitude--communion with my own soul. The same crescent moon hung in the heavens, the same endless stars drew on the thoughts to a material infinity. But now I felt there was another and a truer universe encompassing this painted vision--a spiritual universe of which I had hitherto known nothing, though I had glibly prated of it and listened well-satisfied to sermons about it. The air was warm and pleasant, and, still thrilling with the sense of the Over-Soul, I had passed the outposts of the village almost unconsciously, and walked in the direction of the cemetery on the other slope of the mountain (for the dead feared neither floods nor avalanches). On my left ran the river, still turbulent and encumbered with wreckage and logs, but now at low tide some feet below the level of its steep banks. The road gradually narrowed till at last I was walking on a mere strip of path between the starlit water and the base of the mountain, which rose ineffably solemn with its desolate rock at my side and its dark pines higher up. And suddenly lifting my eyes, I saw before me a mystic moonlit figure that set my heart beating with terror and surprise. It was the figure of a woman, or rather of a girl, tall, queenly, shining in a strange white robe, with a crown of roses and olive branches. For a moment she seemed like some spirit of moonlight. But though the eyes were misted with sadness and dream, the face was of the most beautiful Jewish oval, glowing with dark creamy flesh. A wild idea rose to my mind, and, absurdly enough, stilled my beating heart. This was the Holy Queen Sabbath whose departure we had just been celebrating, and in this unfrequented haunt she abode till the twilight of the next Friday. "Hail, Holy Queen!" I said, almost involuntarily.