he Treasury and all her jewels, that scintillated
kissed by the innumerable lights, glittering and flashing with endless
brilliancy.

Before the commencement of the festival, the inquisitive of the
Cathedral, pretending absent-mindedness, strolled between the choir
and the Puerta del Perdon. The canons in their red robes assembled
near the staircase lighted by the famous "stone of light." His
Eminence would come down this way, and the canons grouped themselves,
timidly whispering, asking each other what was going to happen.

The cross-bearer appeared on the first step of the staircase, holding
his emblem horizontally with both hands so that it should pass under
the arch of the doorway. After, between servitors, and followed by the
mulberry-coloured robe of the auxiliary bishop, advanced the cardinal,
dressed in his purple, which quenched the reddish-violet of the
canons.

The Chapter were drawn up in two rows with bowed heads, offering
homage to their prince. What a glance was Don Sebastian's! The canons,
bending, thought they felt it on the nape of their necks with the
coldness of steel. He held his enormous body erect in its flowing
purple with a gallant pride, as if at the moment he felt himself
entirely cured of the malady which was tearing his entrails, and of
the weak heart which oppressed his lungs. His fat face quivered with
delight, and the folds of his double chin spread out over his lace
rochet. His cardinal's biretta seemed to swell with pride on his
little, white and shining head. Never was a crown worn with such pride
as that red cap.

He stretched out his hand, gloved in purple, on which shone the
episcopal emerald ring, with such an imperious gesture that one after
another of the canons found themselves forced to kiss it. It was the
submission of churchmen, accustomed from their seminary to an apparent
humility which covered rancours and hatreds of an intensity unknown in
ordinary life. The Cardinal guessed their disinclination, and gloated
over his triumph.

"You have no idea what our hatreds are," he had often said, to his
friend, the gardener's widow. "In ordinary life few men die of
ill-humour; he who is annoyed gives vent to it, and recovers his
equanimity. But in the Church you may count by the hundred men who
die in a fit of rage, because they are unable to revenge themselves;
because discipline closes their mouths and bows their heads. Having no
families, and no anxieties about earning the