DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP
ning up an alley-way to the House of God to pray. Finding the front doors of the church fastened, she had made her way into the Bishop’s garden and come round to the sacristy, only to find that, too, shut against her.
The Bishop stood holding the candle and watching her face while she spoke her few words; a dark brown peon face, worn thin and sharp by life and sorrow. It seemed to him that he had never seen pure goodness shine out of a human countenance as it did from hers. He saw that she had no stockings under her shoes,—the cast-off rawhides of her master,—and beneath her frayed black shawl was only a thin calico dress, covered with patches. Her teeth struck together as she stood trying to control her shivering. With one movement of his free hand the Bishop took the furred cloak from his shoulders and put it about her. This frightened her. She cowered under it, murmuring, “Ah, no, no, Padre!”
“You must obey your Padre, my daughter. Draw that cloak about you, and we will go into the church to pray.”
The church was utterly black except for the red spark of the sanctuary lamp before the high altar. Taking her hand, and holding the candle before him, he led her across the choir to the Lady Chapel. There he began to light the tapers before the Virgin. Old Sada fell on her knees and kissed the floor.
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