for in the growth of
music, the fine art, his masterpiece of oratorio are left behind and
forgotten, being too thin and primitive for an age that began with
Beethoven and ended in Richard Wagner; but his songs have not lost their
hold on those simpler natures that are still responsive to a melody and
vibrate to a perfect human voice.

It was late in the afternoon when Stradella had finished his work, and
the last note and rest of 'Pieta Signore' were written down. The two had
dined on the supper which Pina and Cucurullo had prepared for them on
the previous evening, and in the warm hours Ortensia had fallen asleep
again for a little while, still listening to the song and hearing it in
her dreams. But when Stradella was sure that nothing more was to be
changed, she opened her eyes wide and got up; and she came and knelt at
his knees as she had done on that last night in the balcony of the old
inn; and then he sang what he had composed, from first to last, in a
voice that just filled her ears when it was loudest, and still echoed in
her heart when it sank to a mere breath. When he was silent at last
there were tears in her eyes, and she kissed his hand as it lay passive
on the silent strings of the lute, while he bent down over her and his
lips touched her hair.

They had not much time left after that, as it seemed to them, when they
remembered it all and looked back on one of the happiest days in their
young lives. The last time they kissed was when they were ready to go
downstairs to the carriage that was waiting to take them to the
Quirinal. Strange to say, Stradella felt a little faint then, and his
heart was beating almost painfully, whereas Ortensia was quite calm and
confident, and smiled at the two sbirri in black who were ready on the
landing to escort the prisoners to the Cardinal's presence.

They were there at last, in a spacious room where everything was either
white, or gilded, or of gold, the walls, the furniture, the big
fireplace, the heavy carpet spread on the marble floor, where the Pope
sat in his gilded chair, himself all in white, with a small white silk
skullcap set far back on his silvery hair. His face was almost white,
too, and the short beard on his chin was like snow, for he was over
eighty years of age, thin, and in ill-health; but the face was kindly,
with soft dark eyes that still had life in them; and the shadow of a
smile flickered round the faded lips as Stradella and Ortensia knelt
t