Every Sunday, divine service is celebrated on board--a serious, simple
ceremony. Around the movable altar, flags stretched make stained-glass
windows of bunting; the vault of the church is formed by the low
whitewashed ceiling of the space between decks; to right and left, the
partitions of the cabins, the white stems of the smokestacks, form
the metal walls of the shrine; the parti-coloured tubes, steam pipes,
well-polished cocks, cast red and yellow reflections; chairs for the
officers, benches for the crew, are grouped to a depth of eight or ten
yards. He comes who so desires. A bugle call announces services, and
whoever is not on duty, either comes or stays away. While the priest
is accomplishing the holy rites, you hear in the hold the breathing of
the engines, the snoring of the ventilators; above your head, on deck,
patter the sailors of the watch; the big Adriatic rollers slap against
the hull and the quivering of the rapidly moving cruiser makes the
altar tremble.