He sang the opening phrase of the Creed, and the choir joined in with a full, reverberating roll of male voices, while the heads of the people bowed. Mariana did not leave her seat, but sat motionless, leaning against the pillar of stone. From the first moment that she had seen him, wearing the honors of the creed he served, her heart had contracted with a throb of pain. This was his life, and what was hers? What had she that could recompense him for the sacrifice of the Eucharistic robes and the pride of the Cross? He came slowly forward to the altar steps, his vestments defined against the carving of the screen, his face white beneath the darkness of his hair. When the notices of the festivals and fasts were over, he lifted his head almost impatiently as he pronounced the text, his rich voice rolling sonorously through the church: "For who knoweth what is good for man in this life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? For who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun?" And he spoke slowly, telling the people before him in new phrases the eternal truth--that it is good for a man to do right, and to leave happiness to take care of itself--the one great creed to which all religions and all nations have bowed. He spoke the rich phrases in his full, beautiful voice--spoke as he had spoken a hundred times to these same people--to all, save one. She stirred slightly. It seemed to her that a wind blew from the altar where the candles fluttered, chilling her flesh. She shivered beneath the still smile of the painted Christ. The stone pillar pressed into her temple, and she closed her eyes. Her head ached in dull, startled throbs. As she listened, she knew that the final blow had fallen--that it is not given one to begin over again for a single day; that of all things under the sun, the past is the one thing irremediable. The sermon was soon over. He returned to the altar, and the offertory anthem filled the church. Pressed against the pillar, she raised her hand to her ear, but the repetition was driven in dull strokes to her brain: "Thy Keeper will never slumber. He, watching over Israel, slumbers not, nor sleeps." CHAPTER XV