Now passed a tall and slender golden cross, borne
high above the lighted candles; now the cathedral
canons, stately in their dead white mantles. A
chaplain paced down the chancel, with the crozier
between two flaring torches; then the acolytes
moved forward in step, their censers swinging to
the rhythm of the music; the bearers raised the
canopy higher, counting their steps: "One, two;
one, two!" and Montanelli started upon the Way
of the Cross.
Down the chancel steps and all along the nave
he passed; under the gallery where the organ
pealed and thundered; under the lifted curtains
that were so red--so fearfully red; and out into
the glaring street, where the blood-red roses lay
and withered, crushed into the red carpet by the
passing of many feet. A moment's pause at the
door, while the lay officials came forward to replace
the canopy-bearers; then the procession moved on
again, and he with it, his hands clasping the
Eucharistic sun, and the voices of the choristers
swelling and dying around him, with the rhythmical
swaying of censers and the rolling tramp of feet.
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