“Chaunt the deliverer’s praise in every tongue,”

and receiving answers from afar,

  —­“such as once in heaven and earth were sung.”

And of their chaunting was no end; of our headlong pace was neither pause nor remission.

Thus, as we ran like torrents—­thus, as we swept with bridal rapture over the Campo Santo[1] of the cathedral graves—­suddenly we became aware of a vast necropolis rising upon the far-off horizon—­a city of sepulchres, built within the saintly cathedral for the warrior dead that rested from their feuds on earth.  Of purple granite was the necropolis; yet, in the first minute, it lay like a purple stain upon the horizon—­so mighty was the distance.  In the second minute it trembled through many changes, growing into terraces and towers of wondrous altitude, so mighty was the pace.  In the third minute already, with our dreadful gallop, we were entering its suburbs.  Vast sarcophagi rose on every side, having towers and turrets that, upon the limits of the central aisle, strode forward with haughty intrusion, that ran back with mighty shadows into answering recesses.  Every sarcophagus showed many bas-reliefs—­bas-reliefs of battles—­bas-reliefs of battle-fields; of battles from forgotten ages—­of battles from yesterday—­of battle-fields that, long since, nature had healed and reconciled to herself with the sweet oblivion of flowers—­of battle-fields that were yet angry and crimson with carnage.  Where the terraces ran, there did we run; where the towers curved, there did we curve.  With the flight of swallows our horses swept round every angle.  Like rivers in flood, wheeling round headlands; like hurricanes that side into the secrets of forests; faster than ever light unwove the mazes of darkness, our flying equipage carried earthly passions—­kindled warrior instincts—­amongst the dust that lay around us; dust oftentimes of our noble fathers that had slept in God from Creci to Trafalgar.  And now had we reached the last sarcophagus, now were we abreast of the last bas-relief, already had we recovered the arrow-like flight of the illimitable central aisle, when coming up this aisle to meet us we beheld a female infant that rode in a carriage as frail as flowers.  The mists, which went before her, hid the fawns that drew her, but could not hide the shells and tropic flowers with which she played—­but could not hide the lovely smiles by which she uttered her trust in the mighty cathedral, and in the cherubim that looked down upon her from the topmast shafts of its pillars.  Face to face she was meeting us; face to face she rode, as if danger there were none.  “Oh, baby!” I exclaimed, “shalt thou be the ransom for Waterloo?  Must we, that carry tidings of great joy to every people, be messengers of ruin to thee?” In horror I rose at the thought; but then also, in horror at the thought, rose one that was sculptured on the bas-relief—­a dying trumpeter.  Solemnly from the field of battle