Juno gave no answer. In the vestibule a mincing sacristan, low of bow and smiling, came forward to meet the rich merchant and his bride and conduct them at once to the altar. Already a frail girl in pink and a hulking fellow clad in new jeans and fumbling his hat were at the rail receiving a wedlock yoke. In the rear pews sat other wedding parties, awaiting their turns at the altar--solemn-faced brides and listless grooms, bridesmaids in gayest feather, best men with red neckties, aged fathers and mothers half asleep. A stream of opal light from the clerestory windows fell upon these waiting groups, touching their coarse faces with a ghastly hue, but adding a mellow beauty to their cheap finery. It was an hour of silent prayer, yet none the less a season when marrying and giving in marriage is in full tide at San Patrizio. Save where the mating couples and their trains were assembled, every pew contained a row of bowed heads that were covered with shawls or gaudy kerchiefs--the heads of gaunt-cheeked age whose lips never ceased moving in prayer, and who looked up at passers-by with the eyes of a dying dog, side by side with the gleaming teeth and flashing eyes of swarthy youth. The hush was broken when the priest asked the names of the pairing men and women. Then his voice was audible only in the foremost seats. Wedding parties kept arriving. Always a sacristan met them at the holy-water font, and, with a monitory finger on his lips, led them to a rear pew. These were the commoners of Mulberry--the toilers with hod or sweat-shop needle--who in funereal soberness had come to the church on foot. They could wait. But for Signor Di Bello and Juno there was no delay. As they passed up the aisle Juno’s purple satin brushed the rough-shod feet of women at prayer, prostrate on the floor. A pew had been reserved for them on the gospel side. When the priest caught sight of Signor Di Bello, he bustled into the sacristy to put on a different robe. At the same moment the man of the black velveteen moved up the aisle with quick, smooth step, and dropped into a pew on the epistle side, well forward, from which he could turn and watch Juno. Again he fastened upon her the stare that never flinched. For the first time since she had entered upon her bigamous adventure she felt a twinge of misgiving. Who was this fellow with his big eyes always upon her? Some friend of Bertino aware that she was already a wife? The priest beckoned them before him, and as they approached the velveteen coat slipped into a seat nearer the communion rail. “What is your name?” asked the priest of the bridegroom. “Giorgio Di Bello.” “And yours?” of the bride. “Juno Castagna.”