Marcia handed it over, trying not to look conscious of the undertone in his voice. He was very convincing to-day; she was reconsidering her problem. In the crowded little piazza before the cathedral they found the rest of the party. They all mounted the steps and stood in a group, watching the processions of pilgrims with votive offerings. They came in bands of fifty and a hundred, bearing banners and chanting litanies. As they approached the church they broke off their singing to shout ‘Ave Marias,’ mounting on their knees and kissing the steps as they came. Marcia, looking down over the tossing mass of scarlet and yellow kerchiefs, compared it with the great function she had witnessed in St. Peter’s. These peasants approaching the Madonna’s shrine on their knees, shouting themselves hoarse, their faces glowing with religious ardour, were to her mind far the more impressive sight of the two. She turned into the church, half carried away by the movement and colour and intensity of the scene. There was something contagious about the simple energy of their devotion. The interior was packed with closely kneeling peasants, the air filled with a blue haze of incense through which the candles on the altar glowed dimly. The Copley party wedged their way through and stood back at the shadow of one of the side chapels, watching the scene. Paul dropped on his knees with the peasants, and, sketch-book in hand, set himself surreptitiously to copying the head of a girl in front. Marcia watched him for a few moments with an amused smile; then she glanced away over the sea of kneeling figures. There was no mechanical devotion here: it came from the heart, if any ever did. Ah, they were too believing! she thought suddenly. Their piety carried them too far; it robbed them of dignity, of individuality, of self-reliance. Almost at her feet a woman was prostrate on the floor, kissing the stones of the pavement in a frenzy of devotion. She turned away in a quick revulsion of feeling such as she had experienced in St. Peter’s. And as she turned her eyes met Laurence Sybert’s fixed upon her face. He was standing just behind her, and he bent over and whispered: ‘You’ve seen enough of this. Come, let’s get out,’ and he made a motion toward the sacristy entrance behind them. They stepped back, and the crowd closed into their places. Out in the piazza he squared his shoulders with a little laugh. ‘The church must make itself over a bit before I shall be ready to be received into the fold. How about you, Miss Marcia?’ ‘It seemed so beautiful, their simple faith; and then suddenly—that horrible woman—and you realize the ignorance and superstition underneath. Everything is alike!’ she added. ‘Just as you begin to think how beautiful it is, you catch a glimpse below the surface. It’s awful to begin seeing hidden meanings; you can never stop.’