nitely suspended ere sinking into silence. The voice of the
officiating priest fascinated Paul Mario strangely. He found himself
following the rhythm but not the meaning of the words. That solitary
human voice was the complement of a theme whereof the incense and the
monotonous music made up the other parts. Comprehension of words and
syllables was unnecessary. Detached, no portion of the ritual had
meaning; its portent lay in the whole. The atmosphere which it created
was not that of the Mount, but was purely mediaeval, nor had the Roman
fashion of the vast interior power to hold one's imagination enchained
to the Cross of Calvary. The white robes of the altar servants,
broidered vestments of the priests and pallid torches of a hundred
candles belonged to the Rome of Caesar Borgia and not to the Rome of
Caesar Nero. Into that singular building, impressive in its
incompleteness, crept no echo of the catacombs, and the sighing of the
reed notes was voluptuous as a lover's whisper, and as far removed from
the murmurs of the Christian martyrs. Here were pomp and majesty with
all their emotional appeal. Mystery alone was lacking. The robes of
Cardinal Pescara lent a final touch of colour to the mediaeval opulence
of the scene.

It was to hear the cardinal speak that Paul had come. The occasion was
an impressive one, and the great church was sombre with mourning. Men of
a famous Irish regiment occupied row after row of seats, and from the
galleries above must have looked like a carpet of sand spread across the
floor. The sermon had proved to be worthy of the master of rhetoric who
had delivered it. The silvern voice of the Cardinal, from the
pronouncement of his opening words to the close of his peroration when
he stood with outstretched arms and eyes uplifted pitifully in
illustration of the Agony of Golgotha, charmed his hearers as of old the
lyre of Apollo had power to charm. His genius invested the consolation
of the church with a new significance, exalting the majesty of
bereavement to a higher sovereignty. His English was faultless,
beautified by a soft Italian intonation, and his sense of the dramatic
and of the value of sudden silences reminded Paul of Sir Henry Irving,
whom he had seen once during his first term at Oxford and had never
forgotten. Dramatically it was a flawless performance; intellectually it
was masterful. That crucified pitiful figure stood majestic above a
weeping multitude dominating them by the s