The
deacon of honour, bending forward to take off the
mitre, whispered again, hesitatingly:
"Your Eminence!"
The Cardinal looked round.
"What did you say?"
"Are you quite sure the procession will not be
too much for you? The sun is very hot."
"What does the sun matter?"
Montanelli spoke in a cold, measured voice,
and the priest again fancied that he must have
given offence.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence. I thought you
seemed unwell."
Montanelli rose without answering. He paused
a moment on the upper step of the throne, and
asked in the same measured way:
"What is that?"
The long train of his mantle swept down over the
steps and lay spread out on the chancel-floor, and
he was pointing to a fiery stain on the white satin.
"It's only the sunlight shining through a coloured
window, Your Eminence."
"The sunlight? Is it so red?"
He descended the steps, and knelt before the
altar, swinging the censer slowly to and fro. As
he handed it back, the chequered sunlight fell on
his bared head and wide, uplifted eyes, and cast a
crimson glow across the white veil that his ministers
were folding round him.
Pages:
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523