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"Kyrie Eleison!" said he. "Then all this ado was for Mr. Mitrophanis and his daughters?" "I beg your pardon," replied the judge, in a voice that betrayed his agitation. "I did not want them to think that we were talking about them." "Bless my soul! You don't mean to say you're in love?" "Ah, yes. I love her with all my heart!" Mr.
Yet, after all, there was something taking in this singular confusion of sounds after the "Kyrie eleison" and the opening invocations.
A young man dressed roughly as a sailor, and with long black hair and beard, had approached her, but despite dress and beard she was quite aware he was far handsomer than even Procles. “I beg pardon, kyrie,”—she said “kyrie” by instinct,—“I’m only an honest maid.
Then, as a maëstro, the Abbé apportioned to each of his pupils the task for the day, the Kyrie, the Sanctus, or the Gloria in Excelsis. Vogler himself joined in the task, and the completed compositions were sent to the various church-choirs in the Duchy for performance.
“Poorly, poorly, kyrie.” Lampaxo looked down and fumbled her dirty chiton. Such condescension on the part of a magnate barely less than Themistocles or Aristeides was overpowering. “Poorly? I grieve to learn it. I was informed that he was comfortably settled here until it was safe to return to Attica, and had even opened a prosperous stall in the market-place.”
The air was as mild as that of a spring day, and the sky was clear till noon. Then it became overclouded. No one ate or drank, but all bathed and put on their festal attire. During the afternoon processions of priests and monks marched through the town, and sang litanies, in which the people joined. Their Kyrie Eleison, "Christ, have mercy upon us," rang all over the town.
Upon the ancient chant the new harmonies blossomed like roses on an old gnarled stem, and when on the ninth bar of the "Kyrie" the tenors softly separated from the sustained chord of the other parts, the effect was as of magic. Evelyn lifted her eyes and saw her dear father conducting with calm skill.
The sun, as yet, was only level with the tiled roof. The Kyrie Eleisons rang quiveringly through that sort of whitewashed stable with flat ceiling and bedaubed beams. On either side three lofty windows of plain glass, most of them cracked or smashed, let in a raw light of chalky crudeness. The free air poured in as it listed, emphasising the naked poverty of the God of that forlorn village.
When the Pope reads from the missal, this book is held by the first, and a taper by the second, patriarch or assisting bishop . The Kyrie eleison, the Gloria in excelsis, Credo, Sanctus and Agnus Dei are said by all persons within the sanctuary: the cardinals descend from their seats to say them, and form a circle in the middle of the chapel; having received the Pope's blessing they return to their places.
“What do you desire?” he said thickly, at last. “Let my Lord then hearken—” began the Phœnician, to be interrupted by the sudden advent of Bias. “The Scythians are at the door, kyrie,” he was shouting; “shall I order them in and drag this lizard out by the tail?” “No, in Zeus’s name, no! Bid them keep without. And do you go also. This honest fellow is on private business which only I must hear.”
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