her seven
swords of anguish driven through her heart by the passion and the
follies of her Son--He promised her great things, the recognition of her
countless children, the love and service of the unborn, the welcome of
those yet quickening within the womb. He named her the Wisdom of the
Most High, that sweetly orders all things, the Gate of Heaven, House of
Ivory, Comforter of the afflicted, Queen of the World; and, to the
delirious eyes of those who looked on her it seemed that the grave face
smiled to hear Him....

A great panting as of some monstrous life began to fill the air as the
mob swayed behind Him, and the torrential voice poured on. Waves of
emotion swept up and down; there were cries and sobs, the yelping of a
man beside himself at last, from somewhere among the crowded seats, the
crash of a bench, and another and another, and the gangways were full,
for He no longer held them passive to listen; He was rousing them to
some supreme act. The tide crawled nearer, and the faces stared no
longer at the Son but the Mother; the girl in the gallery tore at the
heavy railing, and sank down sobbing upon her knees. And above all the
voice pealed on--and the thin hands blanched to whiteness strained from
the wide and sumptuous sleeves as if to reach across the sanctuary
itself.

It was a new tale He was telling now, and all to her glory. He was from
the East, now they knew, come from some triumph. He had been hailed as
King, adored as Divine, as was meet and right--He, the humble superhuman
son of a Human Mother--who bore not a sword but peace, not a cross but a
crown. So it seemed He was saying; yet no man there knew whether He said
it or not--whether the voice proclaimed it, or their hearts asserted it.
He was on the steps of the sanctuary now, still with outstretched hands
and pouring words, and the mob rolled after him to the rumble of ten
thousand feet and the sighing of ten thousand hearts.... He was at the
altar; He was upon it. Again in one last cry, as the crowd broke against
the steps beneath, He hailed her Queen and Mother.

The end came in a moment, swift and inevitable. And for an instant,
before the girl in the gallery sank down, blind with tears, she saw the
tiny figure poised there at the knees of the huge image, beneath the
expectant hands, silent and transfigured in the blaze of light. The
Mother, it seemed, had found her Son at last.

For an instant she saw it, the soaring columns, the gilding