young man
there, who is talking to him so earnestly; he is listening, with a half-
smile on his face, as if he had made up his mind, after all. These other
two, one very energetic indeed, with his head and shoulders swung back a
little, and his right arm forward, and the other listening to him, and
but half-convinced yet. Then the two next, turning to go with him who is
bearing to the new-chosen bishop the book of the Gospels and pastoral
staff; they look satisfied and happy. Then comes he with the pastoral
staff and Gospels; then, finally, the man who is announcing the news to
the bishop himself, the most beautiful figure in the whole scene,
perhaps, in the whole doorway; he is stooping down, lovingly, to the man
they have chosen, with his left hand laid on his arm, and his long robe
falls to his feet from his shoulder all along his left side, moulded a
little to the shape of his body, but falling heavily and with scarce a
fold in it, to the ground: the chosen one sitting there, with his book
held between his two hands, looks up to him with his brave face, and he
will be bishop, and rule well, I think. So, by the next scene he is
bishop, I suppose, and is sitting there ordering the building of a
church; for he is sitting under a trefoiled canopy, with his mitre on his
head, his right hand on a reading-desk by his side. His book is lying
open, his head turned toward what is going forwards. It is a splendid
head and face. In the photograph I have of this subject, the mitre,
short and simple, is in full light but for a little touch of shade on one
side; the face is shaded, but the crown of short crisp curls hanging over
it, about half in light, half in shade. Beyond the trefoil canopy comes
a wood of quaint conventional trees, full of stone, with a man working at
it with a long pick: I cannot see his face, as it is altogether in shade,
the light falling on his head however. He is dressed in a long robe,
quite down to his feet, not a very convenient dress, one would think, for
working in. I like the trees here very much; they are meant for
hawthorns and oaks. There are a very few leaves on each tree, but at the
top they are all twisted about, and are thicker, as if the wind were
blowing them. The little capitals of the canopy, under which the bishop
is sitting, are very delightful, and are common enough in larger work of
this time (thirteenth century) in France. Four bunches of leaves spring
from long stiff stal