By the time the boats had arrived alongside of the ship, the lamp
had been kindled before the altar, and its flame was gleaming red
and dull in the radiant moonlight. Two of the priests on board
were clothed in their robes of office, and were waiting in their
appointed places to begin the service. But there was a third,
dressed only in the ordinary attire of his calling, who mingled
with the congregation, and spoke a few words to each of the
persons composing it, as, one by one, they mounted the sides of
the ship. Those who had never seen him before knew by the famous
ivory crucifix in his hand that the priest who received them was
Father Paul. Gabriel looked at this man, whom he now beheld for
the first time, with a mixture of astonishment and awe; for he
saw that the renowned chief of the Christians of Brittany was, to
all appearance, but little older than himself.
The expression on the pale, calm face of the priest was so gentle
and kind, that children just able to walk tottered up to him,
and held familiarly by the skirts of his black gown, whenever his
clear blue eyes rested on theirs, while he beckoned them to his
side. No one would ever have guessed from the countenance of
Father Paul what deadly perils he had confronted, but for the
scar of a saber-wound, as yet hardly healed, which ran across his
forehead. That wound had been dealt while he was kneeling before
the altar in the last church in Brittany which had escaped
spoliation.
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