The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the centre aisle.

A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and looked round.

It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of recognition.

The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them.

It was plain that she did not know him.
How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant?
His hair was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him even from his wife.