AGNES OF SORRENTO.

CHAPTER VII.

The day at the convent.

The Mother Theresa sat in a sort of withdrawing-room, the roof of which rose in arches, starred with blue and gold like that of the cloister, and the sides were frescoed with scenes from the life of the Virgin.  Over every door, and in convenient places between the paintings, tests of Holy Writ were illuminated in blue and scarlet and gold, with a richness and fancifulness of outline, as if every sacred letter had blossomed into a mystical flower.  The Abbess herself, with two of her nuns, was busily embroidering a new altar-cloth, with a lavish profusion of adornment; and, from time to time, their voices rose in the musical tones of an ancient Latin hymn.  The words were full of that quaint and mystical pietism with which the fashion of the times clothed the expression of devotional feeling:—­

  “Jesu, corona virginum,
  Quem mater illa concepit,
  Quae sola virgo parturit,
  Haec vota clemens accipe.

  “Qui pascis inter lilia
  Septus choreis virginum,
  Sponsus decoris gloria
  Sponsisque reddens praemia.

  “Quocunque pergis, virgines
  Sequuntur atque laudibus
  Post te canentes cursitant
  Hymnosque dulces personant[A].”

[Footnote A: 

  “Jesus, crown of virgin spirits,
  Whom a virgin mother bore,
  Graciously accept our praises
  While thy footsteps we adore.

  “Thee among the lilies feeding
  Choirs of virgins walk beside,
  Bridegroom crowned with glorious beauty
  Giving beauty to thy bride.

  “Where thou goest still they follow
  Singing, singing as they move,
  All those souls forever virgin
  Wedded only to thy love.”]

This little canticle was, in truth, very different from the hymns to Venus which used to resound in the temple which the convent had displaced.  The voices which sang were of a deep, plaintive contralto, much resembling the richness of a tenor, and us they moved in modulated waves of chanting sound the effect was soothing and dreamy.  Agnes stopped at the door to listen.

“Stop, dear Jocunda,” she said to the old woman, who was about to push her way abruptly into the room, “wait till it is over.”

Jocunda, who was quite matter-of-fact in her ideas of religion, made a little movement of impatience, but was recalled to herself by observing the devout absorption with which Agnes, with clasped hands and downcast head, was mentally joining in the hymn with a solemn brightness in her young face.

“If she hasn’t got a vocation, nobody ever had one,” said Jocunda, mentally.  “Deary me, I wish I had more of one myself!”

When the strain died away, and was succeeded by a conversation on the respective merits of two kinds of gold embroidering-thread, Agnes and Jocunda entered the apartment.  Agnes went forward and kissed the hand of the Mother reverentially.