She moved with it towards the sea, the tones of her grief chiming with it.

Presently, as she went, a priest in cassock and robes and stole crossed the path in front of her, an acolyte before him swinging a censer, his voice chanting Latin verses from the service for the sick, in his hands the sacred elements of the sacrament for the dying.

The priest was fat and heavy, his voice was lazy, his eyes expressionless, and his robes were dirty.

The plaintive, peaceful sense which the sound of the vesper bell had thrown over Angele's sad reflections passed away, and the thought smote her that, were it not for such as this black-toothed priest, Michel would not now be on his way to England, a prisoner.

To her this vesper bell was the symbol of tyranny and hate.