s grimness, this unutterable
horror, there should still be something high, tender, and holy in
Michael's eyes, and around his mouth. But the battle never was such a
child's play as Guido's dapper Archangel seems to have found it."

"For Heaven's sake, Miriam," cried Kenyon, astonished at the wild energy
of her talk; "paint the picture of man's struggle against sin according
to your own idea! I think it will be a masterpiece."

"The picture would have its share of truth, I assure you," she answered;
"but I am sadly afraid the victory would fail on the wrong side. Just
fancy a smoke-blackened, fiery-eyed demon bestriding that nice young
angel, clutching his white throat with one of his hinder claws; and
giving a triumphant whisk of his scaly tail, with a poisonous dart at
the end of it! That is what they risk, poor souls, who do battle with
Michael's enemy."

It now, perhaps, struck Miriam that her mental disquietude was impelling
her to an undue vivacity; for she paused, and turned away from the
picture, without saying a word more about it. All this while, moreover,
Donatello had been very ill at ease, casting awe-stricken and inquiring
glances at the dead monk; as if he could look nowhere but at that
ghastly object, merely because it shocked him. Death has probably a
peculiar horror and ugliness, when forced upon the contemplation of a
person so naturally joyous as Donatello, who lived with completeness in
the present moment, and was able to form but vague images of the future.

"What is the matter, Donatello?" whispered Miriam soothingly. "You are
quite in a tremble, my poor friend! What is it?"

"This awful chant from beneath the church," answered Donatello; "it
oppresses me; the air is so heavy with it that I can scarcely draw my
breath. And yonder dead monk! I feel as if he were lying right across my
heart."

"Take courage!" whispered she again "come, we will approach close to
the dead monk. The only way, in such cases, is to stare the ugly horror
right in the face; never a sidelong glance, nor half-look, for those are
what show a frightfull thing in its frightfullest aspect. Lean on me,
dearest friend! My heart is very strong for both of us. Be brave; and
all is well."

Donatello hung back for a moment, but then pressed close to Miriam's
side, and suffered her to lead him up to the bier. The sculptor
followed. A number of persons, chiefly women, with several children
among them, were standing about the corp