It was the hour of the weekly sacrifice, and Prosper, the priest, stood before the altar of the Shining One, performing the uncouth and ofttimes wholly meaningless ritual of his office. Constans, in his capacity of acolyte, stood on the right of the altar. He felt out of place and somewhat ridiculous; he was conscious that he performed his genuflections and posturing awkwardly, and there were all these women watching him. Especially the two in the front row, accompanied by the limping scoundrel to whom he had yesterday lent his arm on the Palace Road. The one who seemed the elder of the two scanned him with bold, black eyes, unaffectedly amused by his clumsiness; the other, whose face was hidden by a veil, looked at him but once or twice, yet Constans felt sure that she, too, was laughing at him. His position was becoming an intolerable one. Would the farce never come to an end? Now the service was over, and one by one the worshippers withdrew. Last of all the two women, escorted by the man who called himself Kurt, the Knacker. They passed within arm's-length of Constans, but he made as though to turn his head away; youth is proverbially sensitive to ridicule. He noticed, however, that the pilgrimage had not been of marked benefit to the lame man, for he limped as badly as ever. Then their eyes met, and Constans felt somewhat uncomfortable at being favored with a particularly sour smile of recognition. Still he need not concern himself. It was evident that these people were not true worshippers; it was mere curiosity that had brought them before the gates of the Shining One, and now that they had seen the show they were doubtless satisfied. Let them depart whence they came; it was but a passing incident. The snow that covered the ground a week before had nearly disappeared under the influence of a three-days' warm rain. This morning had given promise of even more springlike weather, but as the day wore on it had grown cloudy and the air had turned chill. It had begun to snow again shortly before the hour of service, and so fast had the flakes come down that the fall was already over an inch in depth. Constans, turning the corner into the side-street to get a more extended view of the eastern sky, suddenly halted to contemplate a curious appearing mark in the pure white expanse--the imprint of a woman's foot. It was an exquisitely moulded thing; even the slender arch of the instep had been preserved in unbroken line and curve, and yet Constans wondered vaguely why it should seem so beautiful to him. He put out his own foot and compared the two, laughed, half understood, and was silent. He went on a little farther, following the successive footprints as they led down the street. Once his heavy boot half obliterated one of the delicately marked prints; he backed quickly away, as though his clumsiness had been an actual offence. Then he knit his brows over the absurdity of the affair and stopped to consider.