At Cattaro the Orthodox Church is on its own ground, standing side by side on equal terms with its Latin rival, pointing to lands where the Filioque[14] is unknown and where the Bishop of the Old Rome has even been deemed an intruder.  The building itself is a small Byzantine church, less Byzantine in fact in its outline than the small churches of the Byzantine type at Zara, Spalato, and Traue.  The single dome rises, not from the intersection of a Greek cross, but from the middle of a single body, and, resting as it does on pointed arches, it suggests the thought of Perigueux and Angouleme.  But this arrangement, which is shared by a neighboring Latin church, is well known throughout the East.

The Latin duomo, which has been minutely described by Mr. Neale,[15] is of quite another type, and is by no means Dalmatian in its general look.  A modern west front with two western towers does not go for much; but it reminds us that a design of the same kind was begun at Traue in better times.  The inside is quite unlike anything of later Italian work.

The traveler whose objects are of a more general kind turns away from this border church of Christendom as the last stage of a pilgrimage unsurpassed either for natural beauty or for historic interest.  And, as he looks up at the mountain which rises almost close above the east end of the duomo of Cattaro, and thinks of the land[16] and the men to which the path over that mountain leads, he feels that, on this frontier at least, the spirit still lives which led English warriors to the side of Manuel Komnenos, and which steeled the heart of the last Constantine to die in the breach for the Roman name and the faith of Christendom.

VIII

OTHER AUSTRIAN SCENES

Cracow[17]

BY MENIE MURIEL DOWIE

Cracow, old, tired and dispirited, speaks and thinks only of the ruinous past.  When you drive into Cracow from the station for the first time, you are breathless, smiling, and tearful all at once; in the great Ring-platz—­a mass of old buildings—­Cracow seems to hold out her arms to you—­those long sides that open from the corner where the cab drives in.  You do not have time to notice separately the row of small trees down on one side, beneath which bright-colored women-figures control their weekly market; you do not notice the sort of court-house in the middle with its red roof, cream-colored galleries and shops beneath; you do not notice the great tall church at one side of brick and stone most perfectly time-reconciled, or the houses, or the crazed paving, or the innocent little groups of cabs—­you only see Cracow holding out her arms to you, and you may lean down your head and weep from pure instinctive sympathy.  Suddenly a choir of trumpets breaks out into a chorale from the big church tower; the melancholy of it I shall never forget—­the very melody seemed so old and tired, so worn and sweet and patient, like Cracow.  Those trumpet notes have mourned in that tower for hundreds of years.  It is the Hymn of Timeless Sorrow that they play, and the key to which they are attuned in Cracow’s long despair.  Hush!  That is her voice, the old town’s voice, high and sad—­she is speaking to you.