There they splintered and light lay in fragments. The saints in their niches could be seen the better, and the gold dust from the windows came in unbroken shafts to the pavement. Now the cathedral was almost empty, and more rich, more mysterious because of that. It had been a great throng, for Bishop Ugo had preached. The rest disappeared by the huge portal, marvellously sculptured. The throng that worshipped dwindled to a few lingering shapes. Vanishing through the sacristy door went the last flutter of acolyte or chorister.
The candles were yet smoking, the incense yet clung, thick and pungent. Within the cathedral dusk ruled, rich and mysterious.
Without blazed autumn sunshine, strong as summer sunshine in northern lands.
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