One minute, two minutes, three, passed away. She turned round suddenly, emerged into the church, dark now as once before about a year ago. A light was in her hand; she cared not how she came by it, but partly knew. A priest from one of the choir stalls was watching her, with a feeble candle in his hand. He called out “Treason! Blasphemy!” to see a woman thus emerge from behind the sacred curtain. It was James Peter. Rushing forward, he slipped over a footstool, and fell down heavily. His light was extinguished. Down the vast aisle, with the lightness of a spirit, Rosalie ran. Her eyes were laughing, a flush was on her once pale cheek. James Peter, rising, followed her. He puffed and groaned at every priestly step. But when the door was open she turned and nodded to him in the distance. The door closed. He was in darkness. He had followed solely upon her light. Not till the lights were brought for Evensong did he extricate himself from the toils of the massive building. Then he told his tale. “I tell you she turned round at the door and called to me ‘Bon soir, monsieur! Adieu!’” he cried for the third time to his companions. “Good Lord! What does it mean?” said one. “Was she not dumb?” asked a second. “As dumb as the Serpent!” replied James Peter. “She went into the Holy Place, and is cured.” “A woman in the Holy Place!” “Yes! I called ‘Blasphemy!’ but the damned footstool tripped me! Had it not been for that I had caught her and brought her up before the great High Priest.” “A footstool tripped you!” “Don’t speak so sneeringly, brother Thomas John. I said a footstool tripped me.” “And you lost the woman?” “What could I do without a light?” “Strike matches.” “I followed her eyes till the door closed, and forgot about them. Besides, not being a smoker, I never carry any.” “Did you say you found a woman in the Holiest Place?” asked others, crowding round. “I did not find her there, I saw her coming out.” “Coming out! And never stopped her?” “No!” “But we must find her. What is her address?” “I don’t know. What’s the punishment when we have found her?” “In olden times it was to have her tongue torn out by the roots.” “But the Serpent had just given her one, I tell you.” “Nowadays, I expect, the punishment will be modified. Strict silence on penalty of death, maybe.” “But if the Serpent has given her a tongue, who then dare take it away?” “How has the Serpent given her one?” “I tell you, before she was dumb.” “Impossible! No woman was ever so afflicted—worse luck!” “I tell you she was dumb, and is cured. She said to me at the door, ‘Bon soir, monsieur. Adieu!’ Very pretty words,” and he mimicked the tone and gesture. “This is sheer madness. There is no sense in the words!” cried another. “Is it necessary for women to speak sense?” asked James Peter. All the others laughed. He looked dangerous. And so they talked, and all gesticulated. But the mistake was on the part of James Peter—in part, at least.