“What sort of comparison is that?” Hans Castorp asked, severely.

“It looked like that to me⁠—I couldn’t help thinking of it. But listen. They came towards me, marching, quick step, three of them, so far as I remember: the man with the cross, the priest, with glasses on his nose, and a boy with a censer. The priest was holding the Sacrament to his breast, it was covered up, and he had his head bent on one side and looked very sanctified⁠—it is their holy of holies, of course.”

“Exactly,” Hans Castorp said. “And just for that reason I wonder at your making the comparison you did.”

“Yes, but wait a bit⁠—if you had been there, you wouldn’t have known what kind of face you would make remembering it afterwards. It was the sort of thing to give you bad dreams⁠—”

“How?”

“Like this: I ask myself how I am supposed to behave, under the circumstances. I had no hat to take off⁠—”