slabs are cut into the surface.  These slabs, of black-and-white marble, or of alabaster stained and worn from its native whiteness into a dingy brown, are almost obliterated by the many footsteps which have come and gone upon them for so many centuries.  Not a single name remains to record whom they commemorate.  Dimly seen under a covering of dirt and dust deposited by the living, lie the records of these unknown dead:  here a black lion rampant on a white shield; there a coat-of-arms on an escutcheon, with the fragment of a princely coronet; beyond, a life-sized monk, his shadowy head resting on a cushion—­a matron with her robes soberly gathered about her feet, her hands crossed on her bosom—­a bishop, under a painted canopy, mitre on head and staff in hand—­a warrior, grimly helmeted, carrying his drawn sword in his hand.  Who are these?  Whence came they?  None can tell.

Beside one of the most worn and defaced of these slabs the cavaliere stopped.

“On this stone,” he said, his smiling countenance suddenly grown solemn—­“on this very stone, where you see the remains of a mosaic”—­and he pointed to some morsels of color still visible, crossing himself as he did so—­“a notable miracle was performed.  Before I relate it, let us adore the goodness of the Blessed Virgin, from whom all good gifts come.”

Cavaliere Trenta was on his knees before he had done speaking; again he fervently crossed himself, reciting the “Maria Santissima.”  Enrica bowed her head, and timidly knelt beside him; Baldassare bent his knees, but, remembering that his trousers were new, and that they might take an adverse crease that could never be ironed out, he did not allow himself to touch the floor; then, with open eyes and ears, he rose and stood waiting for the cavaliere to proceed.  Baldassare was uneducated and superstitious.  The latter quality recommended him strongly to Trenta.  He was always ready to believe every word the cavaliere uttered with unquestioning faith.  At the mention of a church legend Count Marescotti turned away with an expression of disgust, and leaned against a pillar, his eyes fixed on Enrica.

The cavaliere, having risen from his knees, and carefully dusted himself with a snowy pocket-handkerchief, took Enrica by the hand, and placed her in such a position that the sunshine, striking through the windows of the nave, fell full upon the monumental stone before them.

“My Enrica,” he said, in a subdued voice, “and you, Baldassare”—­he motioned to him to approach nearer—­“you are both young.  Listen to me.  Lay to heart what an old man tells you.  Such a miracle as I am about to relate must touch even the count’s hard heart.”

He glanced round at Marescotti, but it was evident he was chagrined by what he saw.  Marescotti neither heard him, nor even affected to do so.  Trenta’s voice in the great church was weak and piping—­indistinct even to those beside him.  Finding the count unavailable either for instruction or reproof, the cavaliere shook his head, and his countenance fell.  Then he turned his mild blue eyes upon Enrica, leaned upon his stick, and commenced: