“So, Agnes,” said the knight, who had stolen into the room unperceived, and who now boldly possessed himself of one of her hands—­“Father Antonio hath decided this matter,” he added, turning to the Princess and Elsie, who entered, “and everything having been made ready for my journey into France, the wedding ceremony shall take place on the morrow, and, for that we are in deep affliction, it shall be as private as may be.”

And so on the next morning the wedding ceremony took place, and the bride and groom went on their way to France, where preparations befitting their rank awaited them.

Old Elsie was heard to observe to Monica, that there was some sense in making pilgrimages, since this to Rome, which she had undertaken so unwillingly, had turned out so satisfactory.

In the reign of Julius II., the banished families who had been plundered by the Borgias were restored to their rights and honors at Rome; and there was a princess of the house of Sarelli then at Rome, whose sanctity of life and manners was held to go back to the traditions of primitive Christianity, so that she was renowned not less for goodness than for rank and beauty.

In those days, too, Raphael, the friend of Fra Bartolommeo, placed in one of the grandest halls of the Vatican, among the Apostles and Saints, the image of the traduced and despised martyr whose ashes had been cast to the winds and waters in Florence.  His memory lingered long in Italy, so that it was even claimed that miracles were wrought in his name and by his intercession.  Certain it is, that the living words he spoke were seeds of immortal flowers which blossomed in secret dells and obscure shadows of his beautiful Italy.

* * * * *

EXODUS.

      Hear ye not how, from all high points of Time,—­
        From peak to peak adown the mighty chain
      That links the ages,—­echoing sublime
        A Voice Almighty,—­leaps one grand refrain,
    Wakening the generations with a shout,
    And trumpet-call of thunder,—­Come ye out!

      Out from old forms and dead idolatries;
        From fading myths and superstitious dreams;
      From Pharisaic rituals and lies,
        And all the bondage of the life that seems! 
    Out,—­on the pilgrim path, of heroes trod,
    Over earth’s wastes, to reach forth after God!

      The Lord hath bowed His heaven, and come down! 
        Now, in this latter century of time,
      Once more His tent is pitched on Sinai’s crown! 
        Once more in clouds must Faith to meet Him climb! 
  Once more His thunder crashes on our doubt
  And fear and sin,—­“My people! come ye out!

    “From false ambitions and base luxuries;
      From puny aims and indolent self-ends;
    From cant of faith, and shams of liberties,
      And mist of ill that Truth’s pure daybeam bends: 
  Out, from all darkness of the Egypt-land,
  Into My sun-blaze on the desert sand!