Sunday after Sunday we revisited the venerable church, and followed the brown Franciscans in their march round the sacred stations, listening to the deep sonorous tones of their chant. On one occasion this was suddenly drowned by the high nasal scream of the Armenians, and we found the celebrant of the latter rite in the Calvary Chapel,--a priest with a long beard and peaked Armenian hood. The responses were made by black-robed acolytes in fezzes, and a second minister, in gaudy robes, with a gilt-paper crown much too large for him, swung a censer. The Latin ritual seemed simple and dignified, its music melodious, and its ministers reverential, when contrasted with the unearthly screeching and childish mummeries of the Oriental sect. The plaintive chant of the Franciscans attracted us to the spot where the officiating priest stood, at the door of the Chapel of the Angel. The monks knelt in a double row, and the scene was impressive; the background was formed by the great screen; in front was the dark chapel--a church within a church. Not less affecting was the aspect of the congregation, many with sad pale faces telling of no common histories. One man especially used to draw my attention; light haired, pale, gaunt, and shabby, kneeling with his little taper in one hand, the other held out in an attitude of entreaty; his wild eyes were fixed on the marble Tomb, as though he could hardly believe that, after many miles of journey, he at last really beheld the Holy Sepulchre. In him one might fancy a penitent of the old Crusading times, sent on pilgrimage to expiate some great crime; and the memories of seven centuries rose up--of the king who refused to be crowned where his Master had suffered; of the strong men in mail who had knelt in tears on these stones, and clanked their iron heels about the church; of the time when the proudest chivalry of Europe had devoted their lives to redeem the few feet of rock, where they believed the Holy Saviour to have hung on the cross. But the time to see the church is the season of Easter. In 1873 and 1875 I was present at the so-called Holy Fire. On the first occasion alone, on the second with Lieut. Kitchener, with whom I rode sixty miles in one day from Gaza to see the spectacle. On the evening before the day of the Fire, the whole huge building was full of pilgrims, and the long winding passages and galleries were blocked with human beings, fast asleep, crouched against the walls or extended on mattresses. In the passage from the door to the rotunda, Armenian women were propped in long rows against the walls, on a kind of bench. Most of the pilgrims were asleep, but some still showed by frequent crossings, prostrations, and sighs, that the keenness of their ecstasy was unabated.