A soft fluttering of fans agitates feathers, lace, and ribbons.  Fumes of incense mix with the scent of strong perfumes.  Not the smallest attention is paid by the ladies to the mass which is celebrating at the high altar and the altar of the Holy Countenance.  Their jeweled hands hold no missal, their knees are unbent, their lips utter no prayer.  Instead, there are bright glances from lustrous eyes, and whispered words to favored golden youths (without religion, of course—­what has a golden youth to do with religion?) who have insinuated themselves within the ladies seats, or lean over, gazing at them with upturned faces.

Peal after peal of musical thunder rolls from the double organs.  It is caught up by the two orchestras placed in gilt galleries on either side of the nave.  A vocal chorus on this side responds to exquisite voices on that.  Now a flute warbles a luscious solo, then a flageolet.  A grand barytone bursts forth, followed by a tenor soft as the notes of a nightingale, accompanied by a boy on the violin.  Then there is the crash of many hundred voices, with the muffled roar of two organs.  It is the Gloria in Excelsis.  As the music rolls down the pillared nave out into the crowded piazza, where it dies away in harmonious murmurs, an iron cresset, suspended from the vaulted ceiling of the nave, filled with a bundle of flax, is fired.  The flax blazes for a moment, then passes away in a shower of glittering sparks that glitter upon the inlaid floor. Sic transit gloria mundi is the motto. (Now the lighting of this flax is a special privilege accorded to the Archbishop of Lucca by the pope, and jealously guarded by him.)

CHAPTER III.

THE THREE WITCHES.

Many carriages wait outside the cathedral, in the shade near the fountain.  The fountain—­gushing upward joyously in the beaming sunshine out of a red-marble basin—­is just beyond the atrium, and visible through the arches on that side.  Beyond the fountain, terminating the piazza, there is a high wall.  This wall supports a broad marble terrace, with heavy balustrades, extending from the back of a mediaeval palace.  Over the wall green vine-branches trail, sweeping the pavement, like ringlets that have fallen out of curl.  This wall and terrace communicate with the church of San Giovanni, an ancient Lombard basilica on that side.  Under the shadow of the heavy roof some girls are trying to waltz to the sacred music from the cathedral.  After a few turns they find it difficult, and leave off.  The men in livery, waiting along with the carriages, laugh at them lazily.  The girls retreat, and group themselves on the steps of a deeply-arched doorway with a bass-relief of the Virgin and angels, leading into the church, and talk in low voices.