The thing became as he sat there his appropriate altar and each starry candle an appropriate vow.

He numbered them, named them, grouped them--it was the silent roll-call of his Dead.

They made together a brightness vast and intense, a brightness in which the mere chapel of his thoughts grew so dim that as it faded away he asked himself if he shouldn't find his real comfort in some material act, some outward worship.
This idea took possession of him while, at a distance, the black-robed lady continued prostrate; he was quietly thrilled with his conception, which at last brought him to his feet in the sudden excitement of a plan.
He wandered softly through the aisles, pausing in the different chapels, all save one applied to a special devotion.

It was in this clear recess, lampless and unapplied, that he stood longest--the length of time it took him fully to grasp the conception of gilding it with his bounty.

He should snatch it from no other rites and associate it with nothing profane; he would simply take it as it should be given up to him and make it a masterpiece of splendour and a mountain of fire.