158 A DOG OF FLANDERS.

not understand, but he was full of
sorrow and of pity for the art-passion
that to him was so incomprehensible
and yet so sacred.

The portals of the cathedral were
unclosed after the midnight mass.
Some heedlessness in the custodi-
ans, too eager to go home and feast
or sleep, or too drowsy to know
whether they turned the keys aright,
had left one of the doors unlocked.
By that accident the footfalls Pa-
trasche sought had passed through
into the building, leaving the white
marks of snow upon the dark stone
floor. By that slender white thread,
frozen as it fell, he was guided
through the intense silence, through
the immensity of the vaulted space