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In my sacred joy I must have cried nearly all the time, for I had taken
baby's bonnet off, I remember, and holding it to my mouth I found after
a while that I was wetting it with my tears.
When the exorcisms were over, the priest laid the end of his stole over
baby's shoulder and led her (as our prayer books say) into the church,
and we all followed to the baptistery, where I knelt immediately in
front of the font, with the old godmother before me, the other mothers
on either side, and a group of whispering children behind.
The church was empty, save for two charwomen who were sweeping the floor
of the nave somewhere up by the dark and silent altar; and when the
sacristan closed the outer door there was a solemn hush, which was
broken only by the priest's voice and the godparents' muttered
responses.
"Mary Isabel, dost thou renounce Satan?"
"I do renounce him."
"And all his works?"
"I do renounce them."
"And all his pomps?"
"I do renounce them."
The actual baptism was like a prayer to me.


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