Father Kemble had gone to Middlesbrough to see the bishop, and that left Gabriel responsible for the Sunday Mass. Usually, Kemble only allowed him Saturday night if he didn't feel like doing it, and even then, on the condition Gabriel didn't preach anything radical. It was a redundant concern. There was as little fire left in Gabriel as there was flesh left on his bones or colour in his face; that was to say, very little.

So far he had been facing the baroque altar against the wall, first praying at its foot, then solemnly climbing the steps, his back turned to the congregation on both occasions. Almost all prayers were in Latin and the two servers behind him responded with the appropriate replies. He could dream the words and gestures, but he tried hard to be present and mean what he said and sang.

At last, he turned to the congregation but kept his eyes down, lifted his hands and said: "Dominus vobiscum."

The two boys responded: "Et cum spirito tuo."  

It was a particularly bad cough somewhere in the congregation that caused him to deviate from the rubrics momentarily and look up.