"I'm afraid His Eminence is not well," one of
the canons whispered to his neighbour; "he seems
so strange."
Montanelli bent his head to receive the jewelled
mitre. The priest who was acting as deacon of
honour put it on, looked at him for an instant,
then leaned forward and whispered softly:
"Your Eminence, are you ill?"
Montanelli turned slightly towards him. There
was no recognition in his eyes.
"Pardon, Your Eminence!" the priest whispered,
as he made a genuflexion and went back to
his place, reproaching himself for having interrupted
the Cardinal's devotions.
The familiar ceremony went on; and Montanelli
sat erect and still, his glittering mitre and gold-brocaded
vestments flashing back the sunlight,
and the heavy folds of his white festival mantle
sweeping down over the red carpet. The light of a
hundred candles sparkled among the sapphires on
his breast, and shone into the deep, still eyes that
had no answering gleam; and when, at the words:
"Benedicite, pater eminentissime," he stooped to
bless the incense, and the sunbeams played among
the diamonds, he might have recalled some splendid
and fearful ice-spirit of the mountains, crowned
with rainbows and robed in drifted snow, scattering,
with extended hands, a shower of blessings or
of curses.
Pages:
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520